Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
I force my gaze back to his.
He’s still staring, and the effect that has on me is bizarre. It feels like victory, like I just won a competition against every female in the bar. There are thirty or forty women he can stare at, but he’s looking at me. An unwavering, potent look from the most potent man I’ve ever seen.
I may not be accustomed to this kind of scrutiny, but if I don’t get a grip on my headspace—and other hungrier spaces inside me—he’ll eat me alive before I spit out two words.
Conor speaks to him, and he touches her hand on her lap, keeping his eyes on me.
That stare… Fuck me, it’s too much. I turn my focus to Jake at the counter. He would be easier to approach. He hasn’t glanced at me or any other woman since he walked in here.
I slide a hand over my hair, pressing down the blond disaster. The humidity is a nightmare on natural curls. I hate the frizz when it’s this long. I hate it more when it’s short. I really hate that I can’t stop touching the tangles when I’m anxious.
The bartender turns toward Jake with his beers, and I dare another peek at Jarret.
He’s still watching me.
Damn. There’s nothing discreet about him, and now that he’s caught me looking multiple times, I might as well get on with this.
I rise from the stool, and he drags his tongue along his lip, speaking to Conor. He laughs at something she says and sobers when he realizes I’m heading his way.
That’s right, Jarret Holsten. I’m not as shy as I look.
He might be intimidating as all hell, but I’m not leaving town until I get what I came for.
As I cross the room, the damn peanut shells make it difficult to navigate on heels. First thing tomorrow, I’ll find a second-hand clothing store and replace my shoes with something practical.
When I reach the table, Jake slips past me and settles next to Conor.
“Um… Hi.” Oh God, I sound like an idiot. I hook a thumb under the purse strap on my shoulder and strengthen my voice. “You’re the Holsten twins, right?”
“Yup.” Jarret drinks from his beer and rudely stares at my chest.
Conor kicks him under the table. “Women don’t like to be leered at.”
She would know. Her beauty is really something to behold. I bet she gets ogled and catcalled everywhere she goes.
I tip my head at her in thanks. “You must be Conor Cassidy.”
Jake gives me direct eye contact for the first time. “And you are?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Jarret wings up a brow. “That’s your name?”
It’s not a name at all, but no one bothered to tell my mother that.
“Yeah.” I try to smile, as if I haven’t heard all the Maybe one-liners in existence.
I’ll take that as a Maybe.
Call me…Maybe.
Maybe she’s born with it.
Maybe or Maybe not?
“Maybe Quinn.” I stand taller. “Mind if I sit?”
With a nod, he sets down his beer, flashing a thick red line on his palm. I perch on the stool, trying not to stare at the scar.
“So, Maybe…” Jarret angles closer, his golden eyes poking holes in my bravado. “Which news network do you work for?
My pulse quickens. It’s almost true, but not quite. I came here dressed like a reporter, hoping it would distract my real intentions. Evidently, I’m doing something right. But I don’t want to appear too eager.
“Oh, that’s not…” I school my features. “I’m just passing through.”
That earns me a withering glare from Jake, who calmly says, “The only folks passing through this town are investigative journalists.”
That title is above my pay grade, but he can think what he wants.
I glance down and spot a welted slash on his palm. Weird. They have the same scar?
Without being too obvious, I steal a peek at Conor’s hand as she brushes a strand of hair from her face. Sure enough, another scar. They must’ve cut themselves on purpose? Like in one of those truth-or-dare games kids play?
“Who do you work for, Maybe Quinn?” Jarret tips back his beer, and a swallow slides down the strong column of his throat.
With a feigned sigh, I give him an answer that could be true. “Freelance. I write the story and sell it to the highest bidder.”
I have the credentials to write and sell their dirty laundry. If they’re as corrupt as I’m led to believe, I’ll sell them out in a heartbeat.
“What’s the story?” Conor narrows her eyes with distrust.
“Levi Tibbs is getting released tomorrow.” I yank my hand from my hair, realizing too late I’m fidgeting. “What are you three planning to do about that?”
“What are we planning? Well, we’re going to drink our beers.” Jarret takes a hearty draw from his. “We’ll probably warm up that dance floor. Then I’ll work off some steam in a warm, feisty body.” He checks me out again, a slow journey from north to south. “You’re welcome to join the party. Particularly the last part.”