Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71444 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Sounds like Barrett Alexander might prove to be a little difficult.
The president continues. “I’d like to hit her with this immediately. As in now, if you two don’t mind an overnight stay.”
“We can do that,” Kynan assures him.
“Sounds like I’m going to need to have my stuff shipped to me,” I mutter, pulling out my phone to text Bebe to see if she would mind handling it for me. It’s clear I’m not returning to Pittsburgh for the foreseeable future.
“Thought you’d left DC for good, didn’t you?” Alexander murmurs with a wan smile.
“You know how much I hate driving around Dupont Circle,” I joke in an attempt to put him at ease.
The gratitude is clear in his eyes and voice. “Thank you, Cruce. This means the world to me.”
CHAPTER 3
Barrett
It’s hard to be annoyed by Uncle Jon wanting to have dinner with me tonight. Him coming over is a rare treat because as busy as I think I am, he’s a million times more so.
Seeing as he’s the leader of the free world and all.
But I am a little put out because in order to get ready to host him at my DC townhome, I had to cut out of work early and I never leave work early.
Work is my life.
My reason for living.
The entirety of my being.
Some would say I might be a little obsessed.
But I didn’t have to leave early to meet the Secret Service while they did a security sweep for safety. Not that anyone legitimately thinks I’m a threat to my uncle or there might be a rogue assassin waiting in my coat closet off the foyer in the remote chance the president happened to stop by.
No, the sweep was handled while I had my nose buried deep in my work.
But I did have to leave early all the same because if Uncle Jon was going to take time out of his busy schedule to come see me, then I was going to make his favorite meal.
Tuna fish casserole.
No, it’s not glamorous, but Aunt Janet doesn’t like tuna fish—at least not from a can—so he only gets it when I can make it for him. It’s about the only thing I know how to cook.
I check the timer, then peek inside the oven. The crushed potato chip topping is browning nicely, and, I have to admit… it will be nice to have a home-cooked meal. Most of my dinners are at my desk in my lab, and they consist of a granola bar or protein shake.
Which, sadly, is also my lunch and breakfast most days.
But I’m so close to a breakthrough, and I’m operating on pure adrenaline right now. I work, and I work hard. When I come home, usually around midnight, I crash hard—usually just falling face-first onto the bed. But then my alarm goes off at six, I get a run in and then a quick shower, and I’m back out the door to put in another eighteen hours.
Imagine… free energy for the entire world. Poor countries could have running water and heat, run irrigation systems for farming, and implement medical machinery in the hospitals to help diagnose and treat disease.
My doorbell rings, pulling me out of my dreams for all the good my work can do. I glance at the clock, wondering who it could be.
Seven PM.
How can it be seven already?
I’m still in the clothes I wore to work. I dress for comfort, not style, and the heather-gray leggings with a light blue button-down blouse isn’t as dressy as it should be to greet the president. My dirty, off-white Chucks have certainly seen better days.
I know my hair is a mess. It always starts in a short ponytail, but my bangs eventually get in my way, so I end up shoving a bobby pin in to hold them back. It’s my “hot mess” look, as my research assistant, Derrick, likes to say.
“Oh, well,” I mutter, patting at the top of my head in case I’ve got a big rat’s nest on top for some reason. I’ll often lean over my computer, my fingers clutching and twirling my hair in consternation, which tends to make it an even bigger hot mess.
When the doorbell rings again, I bolt for the door, my Chucks squeaking on the hardwood floors.
I twist the deadbolt, turn the knob, and throw the door open with a smile on my face. “Uncle Jon—”
My words fall flat, ceasing when I see my uncle standing there with two men I don’t recognize. Behind them are two Secret Service agents, recognizable in their classic plain dark suits with earbuds in place.
“Barrie,” my uncle says affectionately, using the nickname I despise. It’s what I was called when I was a kid, but now it just makes me feel like a 1970’s porn star. Still, I graciously accept his warm hug, lingering a bit since we haven’t seen each other in so long.