Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 120165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
I poured what I estimated was a shot into each mug: I’m more of a cocktail girl. I raised my mug. “To...the future.”
He clinked mugs with me. “To the future.” In his accent, fu was like fuck made into a soft kiss and ture was like the rasp of his stubble against your cheek. I crushed my thighs together inside my mermaid tail.
We sipped and the burn of the whiskey didn’t do anything to steady my nerves. It just wrapped golden, scorching threads around all my dark fantasies and pulled them tightly into shape. He could just throw me down across this table. Or up against the wall. And then there’s the money. He bought the building: does he think that buys me, too? Was it wrong that the idea of being indebted to a Bratva boss made some secret part of me go weak?
His chair creaked as he leaned forward, and I held my breath. Then, very slowly and deliberately, he put his elbows on the table, his muscles flexing under his shirt, and put his hands together, fingers curling tightly around his bunched fist.
It was like he was holding himself back, so he didn’t...pounce. And the thought that I was making him almost lose control made a weird kind of pride bloom in my chest.
He frowned at me over the top of his hands, saying nothing, just...studying me. I flushed and squirmed, dipping my head.
“What’s wrong?” he asked immediately.
“I’m not that interesting.”
“You most certainly are.” His voice was still cold, almost angry, as if I was something he didn’t understand but needed to. His hand squeezed his fist, the knuckles white, and he glanced away for a second. “Tell me about your plans for the bookstore,” he ordered. “I want to know that my tenant is going to stay in business.”
And so I told him. Slowly at first, my fingers nervously tracing the rim of my mug. But for someone so scary, he was surprisingly easy to talk to: he actually listened, taking in every word instead of just going through the motions like a lot of men. I told him about how I’d first started up the store, and why, about being raised by Baba and being held back because I didn’t have a degree. His face darkened at that, as if he didn’t like anyone getting in my way. I told him about hosting book groups and the story evenings and the social media promotion I was doing. “But it might not be enough,” I told him. “I’m still losing money each month.”
He nodded, still watching me over the top of his hands. “You’ll find a way.”
I blinked. He sounded so certain.
“You don’t let anything beat you,” he said. “I can tell.”
It might just have been the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me. “Thank you, for what you did,” I said earnestly. “I’d be out of business if it wasn’t for you.”
He looked away and adjusted his tie. “It was a sensible investment,” he muttered.
I stared at him. Was he...embarrassed? “It was kind,” I said firmly.
It was like I’d woken a sleepwalker from a dream. He glared at me, his eyes suddenly so cold that I jumped. What did I say? He knocked back the rest of his Scotch and put the glass down with a barely perceptible clink: even furious, he was so controlled. “Thank you for the drink, Miss Hanford.”
He stood and I scrambled to my feet, panicked. If he left now, like this, I might never see him again. “I told you all about me,” I said. “I don’t know anything about you.”
“You know who I am.” His voice was ice-hard, like he wanted to push me away. “You know what I do.”
“Is that all there is to you?” I asked quickly, “What they say in the news?”
He tugged his waistcoat straight. “What else would there be?”
“Your family,” I tried. “What are your parents like?”
He drew in his breath and, just for a second, his icy mask fractured. I saw what it hid: deep, soul-scarring pain.
Then the mask refroze. “My parents are dead.”
He took the keys from the table and stalked out. A moment later, I heard the bell on the door jangle as it closed behind him.
8
BRONWYN
“Oof.” I set down a carton of books, stretched my aching legs, and looked around for my box cutter. “How’s the sign coming?”
“Great,” mumbled Jen. I’d asked her to put together a display table of her favorite detective novels and she was biting her lip in concentration as she drew on a blackboard.
I found my box cutter and sliced open the top of the carton, then sighed as I looked at the stacks of books inside. I was restocking all the books I’d sold off cheap when I thought I was shutting down and shelving them all would take forever. It was already nearly eight in the evening and there was a lot more to do. At least work stopped me thinking about him.