Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
“Motherfucker…” The man swore? Oh, I’d ruffled his little uptight feathers, hadn’t I.
He sank to the chair across from me, raking his fingers through his short dark hair. “Are you kidding me?”
“Absolutely not.”
“You…” Flaring his nostrils, he glanced around the small café before leaning across the table, close enough that no one else would hear. Close enough that the intoxicating smell of cardamon and leather and man wrapped around me. “You said you know about Paul, but—”
“Oh, I know all about your dick named Paul and his Europenis Tour. Which, by the way, is the stupidest name in the history of porn or whatever it is you’re doing.” It wasn’t. It was actually really witty. If I’d had a dick and a plan like that, I would have one hundred percent called it that.
“It’s not my dick,” he said.
“Bullshit.”
He deadpanned me. “Have you ever seen my dick, Blake?” There was a subtle lilt to his voice, like maybe it was an offer. I reminded myself that the man probably set a timer on his phone when he had sex to make sure he came on time.
“Don’t ask stupid questions.”
He grabbed a menu, flattening the plastic sheet on the tiny table. “A dick is a dick.”
“A dick is a dick, but…” I latched onto his wrist, and my heartbeat stuttered. That little wobble in cardiovascular function could be nothing more than anxiety. Because it was most definitely not the result of animal magnetism. And while, yes, I may have gotten off in the shower to the idea of him a few short hours prior, I was stronger than primitive wants. Clearing my throat, I turned my phone around to face him. “This picture is evidence.”
His gaze dropped to the split-screen photograph. I waited for a flinch, a flicker of anxiety, but the guy played it off with a casual shrug. “Because I’m the only guy in the world with a birthmark?”
“One that looks like a heart…between your thumb and forefinger?”
“I assure you, statistically, there is another man with a birthmark shaped like a heart in the same spot.”
Maybe. Statistics were finicky creatures, and I was certain, somewhere in the universe, there could be another guy with a similar birthmark in a similar place, but what this thieving asshole didn’t think about was…
I swiped a finger over the screen, pulled up the load of screenshots Margot had sent, and then held up my device for his viewing pleasure. “I’m sure the company would love to know they’re not only funding trips for their magazine but trips for your Lonely Fans account.” I watched his Adam’s apple bob, hating that I found it attractive.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I swiped to another screenshot, one of him choking Paul in front of Mayan ruins. “I spent three hours last night making a spreadsheet. I matched up the dates of your posts with the locations, and guess what, asshole—every one of them lines up with your travel assignments.” I narrowed my gaze. “That’s not a coincidence.”
He silently stared at the evidence for what felt like an eternity. Each tick, tick, tick from the clock behind the café counter seemed amplified. I hated to admit it because I would never have considered myself a cruel person, but I found a sliver of vindication in the panic creeping across his face. Screw that. I was elated.
He sank back into his seat. “What do you want?”
“Simple. I want my trip to Europe.”
Chapter Six
VANCE
The hiss of the expresso machine faded into the background as I stared across the tiny café table and into the Mediterranean-blue eyes of Blake Brently. Not only had she found my Lonely Fans account and figured out it was me, but she was attempting blackmail? From a black eye to blackmail…
“Vance?” she said, my attention drifting from her pretty eyes to her pouty lips. “I want the trip you stole from me like a swindling asshole.”
“What do you expect me to do?” I asked, leaning back in my seat. “Even if I were to back out of it, Amanda doesn’t like you. She’ll just give it to someone else.”
Blake’s pink lips tightened into a frown. “No shit, Detective Dick Pic.”
I filed that name away to use when I went to London and visited the infamous White Chapel area—Detective Dick Pic on the hunt for Jack the Ripper—because Blake was not taking that trip from me.
“I know she won’t reassign it to me,” she said.
Now, I was confused. If she hadn’t expected Amanda to reassign it to her, what the hell had she expected?
I stared across the wobbly table for a few seconds, waiting for Blake to follow up on that last statement with something. When she didn’t, I let out a breath. “You’re not very good at this blackmail thing.”
“Oh, I’m very good at this blackmail thing. And since you stole my assignment—” She jabbed a finger at me—“like the thieving thief you are, I want you to buy me a plane ticket to Europe, or I’ll expose you for the double-dipping, dick-pick-taking purloiner you are.”