Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84655 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
“Got nothing to say to him,” I mutter, climbing to my feet and relegating myself to the idea that if I take the back way to the office, I can shave four minutes off of Deacon’s good-intention conversation.
“All my phone says is, tell Flynn I ran into his pretty friend today.” He continues to look down at his phone casually, as if he didn’t just deliver a blow that has the ability to shine light back into my world or send me into eternal darkness.
I pull my phone from my pocket, dropping the damn thing on the marble lobby floor. The screen cracks, but it still works enough to make calls.
“Wren,” I hiss when the call connects. “You found her?”
I’m met with silence, another form of punishment. The man does not like to be ignored, and I haven’t spoken to him in weeks other than about work-related things. I’ve perfected petty, and he probably hates me for it. The mature part of me won’t acknowledge the fact that he started it by refusing to tell me where Remington went when she left the office. His I lost her in a blind spot didn’t work for me then and thinking about it now only pisses me off all over again.
“I swear to God, if you don’t—”
His chuckle makes me see red. He has to understand that the taunting right now is enough to send me into a blind rage. Laugh about it but tell me my girl is safe first.
My feet carry me out of the building, muscle memory and nothing else forcing me closer to my truck. He’ll either give me a damn address or end up with a broken nose. Getting to my truck quickly will ensure I can do either/or faster.
“Wren,” I hiss again, beeping the truck to unlock it and climbing inside. “Did you fucking find her or not?”
“I wasn’t looking for her,” he clarifies as if it makes any fucking difference right now.
A noise to my right makes my lip curl up in a sneer until I look over and see Deacon outside the truck staring at me like an animal in a zoo display, a mischievous smile on his face. I sneer at him and refocus my attention to the phone.
“It may not even be her. Could be a girl that looks like her.”
I know better. Wren never forgets a face, and the man has the uncanny ability to pull up information from his Rolodex of a brain at the snap of his fingers.
I crank the truck, putting it in gear and backing out of the parking spot without looking. A horn blares, and although Deacon curses under his breath, he doesn’t chastise me. I cuss under my breath, tossing my phone into the cup holder when the call connects to my Bluetooth.
“Come the fuck on,” I mutter, fingers tapping impatiently on the steering wheel as I wait for Father-fucking-Christmas to drive by and get out of my way. “Wren! Where is she? I don’t want to miss her.”
“You won’t. She’s working.”
A small grin threatens to tug up the corner of my mouth. Working implies a level of settling in which means she may not have intentions to get out of town anytime soon. I can work with that because I know if I show up and see her, she isn’t just going to run into my arms and bury her pretty face into the crook of my neck. If the stubborn woman wanted to do that, she’s had every day since she walked away to do that very thing.
“He’s going to murder you if you don’t spill it,” Deacon mutters from the passenger seat. “Or he’s going to kill both of us because he’s not paying attention to what he’s doing. Look out, asshole, running over a guy on a bike will ruin his day.”
I slow down, my foot coming down heavy on the brake, causing both of us to jerk a little in our seats. It reminds me to pull my seat belt on.
“She’s at Paddy’s.”
“That Irish pub on Fourth?”
“That’s the one.”
I hang up, not ready to forgive him even with the information he just provided.
“You’re going to hurt his feelings,” Deacon hisses as I take a corner a little too fast, back tires squealing as I fishtail my way on to Fourth.
How is it possible that she’s been a handful of blocks away from the office this whole time?
“Fuck his feelings,” I mutter. “Whitney can kiss it and make it better.”
Deacon doesn’t say a word, doesn’t insist I take him back to the office as I pull up outside of the pub, a neighborhood favorite for many even though I haven’t stepped foot in there in months. Deacon and I used to leave the office and come here several times a week, but that was before he and Anna got together. Now the man is all about the homelife. I don’t fault him for it. Hell, I’d give anything to have that myself.