Series: Werewolves of Wall Street Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
“No, really? I never would’ve guessed,” Vance deadpans, and she punches his arm. He yelps and clutches his arm, pretending her punch hurts.
“C’mon, noob, I’ll show you the ropes.” Jake throws an arm around her shoulder and steers her to the side of the SUV. “First we ride to the site of the games. There’ll be a big bonfire where we all gather and the organizer tells us how the game of the day is played. It’s usually a competition of some sort–strength, speed, tracking ability. And the purpose is for us all to mingle and find our mates.”
“Right.” She wrinkles her nose. “And how many of these wolves have you slept with, player?”
Vance howls. “Oh, she has your number.”
I know they're having fun, but I’m on edge, and if I don’t get my wolf under control, someone’s going to lose a jugular. “Come on,” I order, and we all climb in the SUVs to head to the games.
The sooner I get through the stupid Games, the sooner I’ll get back to being with Madi where I belong.
Madi
It’s weird waking up alone. And it’s weird that I feel weird because how long have Brick and I been waking up next to each other? A few days?
So much has changed, I have whiplash. I stare down at the giant emerald-cut rock on my finger. Did a billionaire werewolf really chase me down the beach last night to make me wear his diamond ring?
The same guy who then told me he’s going to mating games in Sweden where he’s pretending to be single.
Asshole.
No, he’s not an asshole. Things aren’t so black and white. There’s a ring on my finger. A promise that he wants to make a life with me. It’s just that right now the life he’s offering me sucks eggs.
I throw my legs over the side of the bed and climb out to look at the view. At least I'm on a beautiful island. I might as well enjoy it. The windows show an idyllic day–brilliant blue and sunny skies, balmy weather. It’s cool enough I might need a light sweater in the shade, but I bet I’ll heat up on the beach. I throw on a blue sundress and toss a pair of pretty white sandals and cardigan into a woven seagrass tote. A pair of designer sunglasses, and I’m set for the day. I now have the Coastal Grandma wardrobe of my dreams, and all it took was dating a billionaire to get it.
Back in my normal life, I’d be scrambling across freezing sidewalks to the sweaty subway with my second-hand bag and practical, well-worn flats. Now I’m alone on a private island in a billionaire’s mansion. With werewolves patrolling the beach to guard me.
Life sure comes at you fast. The sand is shifting beneath my feet. I need to remember who I am. He can’t take that away. I won’t be swept off my feet by all this glamor and the whirlwind of wealth and privilege. He can hide me away, he can keep secrets from me, but he can’t make me someone I’m not. I won’t allow it.
I just wish I could figure out what to do. I check my phone to see if Catherine let me know her plans. She said she would come, but I’m not sure when. My phone is dead–I forgot to plug it in last night, so I head to the huge room I think of as the living room to find my cord.
And stop short when I see Brick’s mom sitting by the pool outside. I called her last night and asked her to come, but I didn’t realize she’d get here so fast.
I throw the door open. “Catherine?”
“Madi.” She turns with a warm smile. Her cream color lounge set and cashmere cardigan would make Diane Keaton jealous.
“You’re here,” I blurt because my brain is still catching up. Catherine is here? Already? I need a latte.
“I took the jet overnight.”
“Oh.” Right. The ultra wealthy don’t have to book tickets. They can just order up their private jets, spend the night in a comfy bed, and wake up at their destination. No big deal.
I’ll never get used to this.
Catherine chuckles. “I wanted to be here sooner rather than later. How about we have some coffee out here? I instructed Ariadne to make you your favorite. Vanilla latte, right?” She points at the second mug of coffee on the table.
“Right.” She’s more at home here than I am. Which makes sense–she’s probably used to beach-front mansions filled with everything you could desire.
The tight muscles in my back and neck relax. “That would be lovely, thank you.”
I sit with her in the sunlight. The patio furniture is pristine, and there’s not a speck of sand on the pavers. The only sign of anyone is a dark shape walking the beach–one of the guards on patrol, holding a nasty-looking gun. He strolls out of sight only to reappear in five minute increments.