Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Jackson looked at a few contracts for me as a favor. Then I recommended a friend, and they recommended a friend. And pretty soon, he was drowning in business. Fully paid business.
He partnered with a friend from law school who stayed in California and opened a boutique bicoastal firm.
Entertainment law.
I guess he does take after his father.
"He's a great lawyer," I say.
"A ruthless negotiator too." Daphne smiles in a way that suggests another implication. A sexual one.
But I don't want to know.
Laurel ignores their flirting. "Do Mom and Dad know?"
"You know your parents," Laurel says. "Somehow, they know everything."
"Yours too," Laurel says.
Daphne nods. "HIPAA be damned."
"Do you need anything, Laur?" Jackson asks.
Laurel shakes her head. "I know my way around. Go. Do what you must. I see the look in your eyes. I don't need to see it again."
Daphne blushes.
Jackson smiles like a teenage boy who got caught necking at prom.
It's weird. The man is my lawyer. I know I'm a family friend, but I'm not family. I don't usually see the head over heels side.
I say my own good night.
After another round of hugs, Daphne and Jackson take Laurel's directions and retire to their bedroom.
The second the door closes, Laurel pulls out her cell phone, connects to their speaker system, blasts a playlist of new dance music.
She loves EDM.
She loves falling into the flow of the music, melting into someone as she dances.
And I love being that person.
No. I did. Once.
Now—
My dick wants her more than ever. But my brain now possesses the ability to overpower the motherfucker.
I name the artist.
Laurel nods of course. She raises a brow, already shifting back to the girl who finds me impossible. "Am I not with the times enough for that?"
"Not everything is an insult."
"Tell that to your face." She slips her phone into her purse and sets the bag on the kitchen counter.
"Why was he wearing a suit?" I ask. "It's one a.m."
"Why do you think?" She shakes her head isn't it obvious? "It's a sex game."
"How's that a game?"
She raises a brow really? "What do you think he does with the tie."
"Your brother is into BDSM?"
"Yes, he is my brother, so thank you for putting two and two together. I don't want to talk about it."
"But how do you know?" I ask.
"'Cause Daphne is worse than Cass. She can't stop gushing about her husband's amazing sexual skill. I don't blame her. I like when people know my man is talented." There's a sharpness to it, but I'm not sure where she's trying to send the knife.
Is it I've had way better sex.
Or we could have been that couple, the one everyone envied because we had it so fucking good.
"It's not a big deal." She shrugs, making great effort to sell her effortlessness. "People have sex."
"Laurel Steele doesn't think sex is a part of life?"
"It's an important part of life, sure," she says. "But it's not always a momentous occasion."
Since when?
She watches me attempt to form a thought. "Listen, Romeo, I know you think I'm some sort of Malibu Barbie, who's so busy picking out her next pair of shoes she doesn't notice your contempt, but I'm not an idiot. If you want to be friendly, drop it."
"Drop what?"
Her eyes narrow. "Friends don't remind each other they had sex three times."
"You counted?" I ask.
"I can count that high."
"When have I ever implied you weren't smart?" I ask. I know idiots. Lots of them have advanced degrees from the best schools.
Laurel might not be book smart the way her brother and sister-in-law are, sure, but she's street smart. She's people smart.
She's creative and talented.
She can look at a person and a rack of clothes and just know what they can wear to turn into a vision.
It's not my art form, but it's an art form. I appreciate it.
"Your friends have," she says.
"I didn't have friends then," I say.
"Your frenemies then." She stretches her arms over her head and lets out a low yawn. "You want to babysit me with as little fuss as possible. I want you to go the fuck away. But I'll accept a bodyguard who plays nice. If you actually play nice."
"You don't want to be friends?" I ask.
"When were we ever friends?" The harsh edge to her voice fades into pain. She stares directly into my eyes, daring me to answer, to explain what happened.
But how could I?
She's right. She acted like my friend.
I acted like a shithead.
I want to tell her what happened, I do. But I can't. For too many reasons.
"Is that really how you see me?" I ask.
She gives me a long, slow once-over. "You're tragically sexy." Her eyes settle on my hips. She stares at my jeans like she's trying to see every thread of fabric. "Don't pretend you don't know. Those are designer jeans."
"Secondhand."
"They fit you perfectly." Her teeth sink into her lip. "You have the thighs for them."