Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 114419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
I googled him. And you should too.
No. No, I should not.
She’d chosen to push everything that had happened with Gavin to the back burner. There were more important things to dwell on than him. Or their conversation. Or their kiss. Or what he’d said regarding Brandon.
She closed the text from Nellie to respond to later when she was at home. Or maybe she’d give her a call in the car if she felt better, she thought, massaging her temple. The caffeine hadn’t touched her headache, which had only gotten worse since she’d gone on a periodic table of elements scavenger hunt. She needed to go search out something stronger.
She went to turn away from her computer but hesitated.
Don’t do it.
Look him up. See how loyal he is.
She clicked to the front page of a search engine and typed in his name. The most recent hit on Brandon Guthrie of Purcell, Fenwick, and Penn came up, and when she saw what it was, her stomach dipped.
She hesitated. It was a bad idea to open the article. She knew it was, and yet she was unable to resist.
This won’t do you any good. You know it won’t.
See how loyal he is.
The article highlighted a swanky reelection-campaign dinner for the man running for mayor of New York City, the man responsible for Sienna sitting at a desk in Reno at that particular moment. Or maybe it was she who was ultimately responsible, she who had made the conscious decision not to follow orders, but . . . whatever.
She skimmed some of the copy lauding the event’s focus on sustainability . . . passed edible-flower canapés . . . entirely plant-based menu . . . hand-painted biodegradable dishes . . . bamboo flatware. What a crock. She’d learned a little something about the mayor when she’d been investigating his team member. In his private life, the mayor ate $900 steaks, flew to Aspen on the weekends in his private jet, and—likely, though admittedly she hadn’t taken time to do any precise math—used more electricity daily than the average American in an entire year to run his twenty-thousand-square-foot home. And Sienna had nothing against luxury. What she had a problem with was hypocrites. Especially those in power. Especially those who covered for their child-victimizing friends. Her head pounded, and she took a sip of the now-tepid coffee from the paper cup. Cheers to you, you piece of fake, lying crap.
She scrolled down to a photo of . . . the dry-spell devil himself. She leaned in, her mouth opening in surprise, her heart dipping.
What. The. Hell?
There was Brandon, sitting at one of the lushly decorated tables, debonair in a tuxedo, laughing at whatever the person onstage was saying. And next to him was a pretty, large-breasted woman who worked with him. Sienna had met her at one of the company events a few months before and noticed the way she’d eyed Brandon. When Sienna had jokingly mentioned it later, Brandon had brushed it off, smiling and asking who he was going home with.
Her heart dipped further.
Maybe Brandon hadn’t experienced quite the dry spell she had.
And truly, she wasn’t sure whether the pit in her stomach was more for the fact that he looked pretty damn chummy with his coworker, who had her hand resting on his shoulder as she, too, laughed, or if it was because he was there at all. How could he attend a campaign dinner for the man who’d not only attempted to squash the investigation into a morally depraved crime but would have thrown her to the wolves if she hadn’t been quickly ushered out of town to the only department that would take her because they were desperately short staffed?
Her stomach soured.
She waited for the shock and heartache to descend, but it didn’t. There was only dismay. Maybe she was just emotionally drained and didn’t have a drop more available for Brandon Guthrie and his dinner of disloyalty.
She clicked out of the browser and glanced over at Kat, who was still on the phone, turned away and writing something down.
She rifled through her notes. There were several things skating on the edge of her thoughts, but she didn’t seem to be able to focus on any of them. With a frustrated sigh, she moved them aside.
“Hey, Sienna, you don’t look so well,” Kat said, placing her phone down. “Do you need to go home?”
Sienna opened her mouth to object when a particularly sharp pain in her temple made her squint her eye again. Kat was right. She felt awful, and she couldn’t do anyone any good like this. Her thoughts were scattered and unfocused, and if she didn’t get some sleep, she was going to fall over. “Are you sure you can—”
“Yes. Get out of here, now. I’ll let Ingrid know.”