Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
My lips part. He’s ready to go public. To show them all.
“But…” He lifts a shoulder. “Perhaps I’ll ask Ann-Marie instead.”
My brows snap together, jolting me from my thoughts. “You’re a bastard.”
His smirk is as evil as the look in his eye. “I’m your bastard.”
I throw the stupid phone he gave me—the suddenly serviceless, password-protected, Wi-Fi enabled phone—at his head, but he dodges it effortlessly, laughing loudly as he makes his way down the hall.
It’s not until he’s out of sight that I realize that he not only left my door wide open and unlocked, but that an invitation sits in the place his ass was parked.
Tearing it from the comforter, I glare at the golden-trimmed card, a spark firing in my gut as I read over the words.
The fundraiser is being held at The Enterprise.
My sister owns The Enterprise.
“Wait!” I dart into the hall, running in nothing but thick, comfy socks in the direction Enzo disappeared, and when I round the corner into what was nothing but a wasted space, I freeze.
Much like that day in the courtyard, the space has been transformed, this time into a dressing room of sorts. A woman with the word “crybaby” tattooed above her left eyebrow sits on a vanity chair, playing on her phone, every shade of makeup in existence in a giant trunk to the left of her.
Three-piece mirrors sit in all four corners, a spinning pedestal before them. Five different gown styles in five color options hang from metal hooks, and a woman wearing an apron with dozens of pins at the hem stands beside the racks, fussing with a garment bag, and beside her, a third and final female. This one setting combs out onto a folded cloth as precisely as one would throwing knives—smallest to largest, left to right.
I glance across the women, wondering where they came from and how Enzo knows them.
“You haven’t showered.”
All eyes fly to me, and my chest heats as I leisurely look to the old woman. “Hello, Grandma. Good to see you too.”
Someone scoffs behind me, and Grandma scowls. “Cute, dear. Now go. Shower. No moisturizer on your face. Jayden will handle everything for you. Shall I prepare some chardonnay?”
My brows jump and she shakes her head, but I don’t miss the small smile she fights as she puts her hands on my shoulders and spins me away. “Go on. You have ten minutes.”
“Can I—”
“I’ve already got the strawberries out. Nine minutes.”
The eye roll I give is full-on dramatic and serves well to hide the sliver of excitement in my gut, but I do my best to push it down by focusing on the task at hand.
I’m showered, shaved, and in nothing but a satin robe, my wet hair in a claw clip as I step back into the makeshift dressing room.
My feet are just crossing the threshold when long pointy fingers wrap around my wrist, tugging me forward. The woman smirks as her eyes travel my makeup-less face, sparkling as if she already knows exactly what she wants to do. The crybaby tattoo above her eye stretches higher when she smiles, ushering me into the chair. “I’m Jayden. I’m on face. Jenna is on hair, and Jazzy is on the dress. I’m just gonna put a quick mask on your eyes and then you’ll pick your gown. After that you’re right back to me, got it?” She pops a large piece of bubble gum, smiling at me. “I can’t believe he’s letting us talk to you.”
At my frown, she just laughs, and neither of us bother mentioning who he is. Jayden smooths a thick, gel-like substance around the contours of my eyes, the eucalyptus smell soothing and reminding me of the spa day I didn’t get to finish.
“Girl, don’t humiliate us like this.” When my eyes meet hers in confusion, she winks. “A pout like that might make me Enzo’s biggest nightmare.”
“Jayden, behave. It was hard enough to get the approval for you girls to be here. Don’t disappoint me now by hitting on the boss’s bride-to-be.”
“Meh, a little family competition never hurt no one. Right, Boston?”
Wrong. So fucking wrong, but I don’t say that, instead focusing way too hard on the “family” part. “You’re related to Enzo?”
“Don’t spot the resemblance?” she teases, pressing a thin white cloth with large cutouts around my eyes, dabbing against it with a featherlight touch to seal it to the gel there.
I look more closely. The woman is tall, her eyes darker than Enzo’s and her hair is jet-black, but not the natural kind. While Enzo is all clear skin—minus the new tattoo of my lips—Jayden is covered in ink. It wraps up her neck and down her arms. Even her long, thin fingers are dipped in ink. Of course that’s all stylistic choices, and doesn’t help as far as resemblances go.