Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 135536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Jared’s eyes met mine across the rearview mirror before scurrying back to the road ahead. I knew guilt when I saw it.
And I could taste betrayal from a thousand miles away.
I’d been poisoned.
Madison or Bruce?
I didn’t even have to think twice.
Madison, of course.
Bruce was conniving but too conventional to murder. The man was as edgy as a softball.
Madison must have paid my driver to kill me. Problem was, I had no idea what he’d laced into the water. No way of knowing how grim my situation was or what the antidote might be.
I doubted Jared knew, either.
One thing was certain—mentioning it to him now, while I was too weak to breathe properly, would be a mistake.
Returning my attention to my phone, I wrote one word.
Romeo Costa
Poisoned.
Within half a second, Zach’s name flashed on my screen.
I accepted the call, too ill to speak. Just as well, as Zach didn’t want my conversation. He needed my location through his GPS app.
“I can’t wait to get home,” I croaked out, so he could hear where I was headed. Judging by the scenery, I’d make it there in four minutes.
Texts darted down my screen.
Ollie vB
I sent an ambulance over to your house.
Heading there now.
Side note—I love how you insisted on putting a period after the word poison, even on your deathbed.
Your passion for good grammar is commendable.
Oh, and keep whatever you drank or ate with you, so we can run a check and see what’s in there.
I was grateful my friends, despite exhibiting the mental age of thirteen normally, were resourceful in crunch time.
Relief swept through me when I realized Madison would probably leave Shortbread alone. No point harming her without me alive to witness it.
Jared’s shoulders rattled with nerves. He tossed glances at me through the mirror, clutching the steering wheel in a death grip, leaving indents of sweat on the plush leather cover.
He either expected me to drop dead and was wondering why I was still seated, looking calm and collected, or was having second thoughts.
There is minus-zero chance I’ll let you walk away from this.
If I get out of this alive.
I’d never been a big fan of life. Growing up, I’d spent countless days wishing I’d never been born.
So, the foreign panic that seized my chest surprised me.
And with it, came an unsettling realization—I didn’t want to die.
I wanted more time with Dallas “Shortbread” Costa.
With my wife.
I wanted to hear her laughter. To try new food with her. To dance together in ballrooms—this time because she wanted to give me those dances, not because of societal pressure.
I wanted to seduce her and be seduced by her. I wanted a do-over of our Parisian honeymoon.
Hell, a part of me wanted to see our child.
Would it be a boy or a girl? Hazel or gray-eyed? With her temper? Or my dry sense of humor? And her laugh? Was she already pregnant?
Fuck, what if she was?
I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.
The car pulled in front of my mansion. The thought crossed my mind that it could very well be the last time I greeted Dallas in our home. If she was still there.
Pushing the door open, I stumbled out, zigzagging my way to the door.
Jared flew out the driver’s side, hot on my tail. “Boss, you don’t look well. Should I—”
I burst through my entryway, collapsing to my knees.
My body was shutting down. One organ at a time. Crawling toward the stairway, I passed Hettie on her way from the kitchen, a bag of oranges cradled in her arms.
“Keep Jared out of the house,” I mumbled.
She didn’t ask what was wrong. She did as I said and blocked the driver with her slender body.
The journey up the spiral staircase was excruciating. Each step seemed to cost me a year of my life. Sweat rolled down every inch of skin. White dotted my eyesight.
Finally, I reached Dallas’s bedroom. Though she slept in ours these days, she still loved the room she first occupied when she moved here.
It was full of her books. Of her scent. Of her sweet existence.
She spent most afternoons reading on the windowsill.
The relief I felt at seeing her curled in front of her window, a paperback in her lap, was immediate. At the very least, I could tell her what I wanted to say.
She looked like a painting so unique, so special, even Zach wouldn’t be able to get his hands on it. In a pale turquoise dress. Her backdrop a winter realm of pearl-hued snow.
Tendrils of her hair escaped her messy bun. I cursed myself for all the times I wanted to tuck them behind her ears but didn’t.
Life was too short not to be crazy fucking in love with the girl who wore you down.
Shortbread’s gaze hurdled from the pages of the book to me. Her jaw slackened.
The sky was falling through the reflection of her eyes. Even if I never heard her return the words I was about to say, I knew that was enough.