Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99675 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Her eyes tell me she’s seen worse and survived. One side of her full lips tilts up. “I’m always okay, Cinder.”
Sure wish I could say the same.
“Come visit me at the store?” she adds.
“I will.”
Chapter Two
Deputy D leads me down a long corridor to a metal door with a tiny glass window. He said lawyer. Camilla couldn’t pull off that act if her life depended on it––too honest and transparent. Which means she found someone on short notice. On New Year’s Eve, no less. My best friend is a holy freaking rainmaker.
I’m bouncing on the balls of my bare feet, craning my neck to look through the small window. All I want to do is go home, crawl under the covers, and not come out for a week while I nurse my battered ego back to health and the promise of freedom is making me antsy. For the first time tonight, I feel marginally better. Until Dipshit unlocks the door. Until I get a super clear view of whom is on the other side of it and then I don’t feel better. No. As a matter of fact I feel worse. Just like that the shred of optimism I was fostering a minute ago circles the drain.
Camilla’s husband’s best friend. He’s standing with one hand shoved in the pocket of his perfectly tailored tux. The top of his shirt is draped open, bowtie ends hanging down, eyes glued to the screen of his cell phone.
No, no. God, don’t do this to me. I’ll be good. I swear I will.
I blink and blink, hoping and praying, but no, I’m not imagining it. This nightmare is real. I start to back out, and Deputy D slams the door shut behind me, the sound grating on my already raw nerves.
“What are you doing here?” My voice sounds strangely high and sharp.
He glances up. His thickly lashed brown eyes skim my face, take note of the black eye makeup which is undoubtedly half way down my face, work their way lower to the ripped edge of my silver mini dress, then descend all the way to my bare feet. My toes curl in reflex, hiding from his scrutiny.
I’m dying a million tiny painful deaths. A million. If there’s a personal circle of hell for each and every one of us, this is mine.
I’m convinced that men like Ethan Vaughn are put on this planet to make the rest of us feel bad about ourselves. He’s too…perfect. I hate that word, I really do, but there’s no other way to describe this dude. A face and body that would make Adonis bristle in envy, successful, impeccably dressed. He’s neat. He’s very neat. It’s past midnight and he’s still pressed and clean. How the fuck is that possible? I bet he rinses his recycling before placing it in the blue bin. Probably farts perfume.
I don’t buy it. I just don’t buy it. My bullshit meter tells me something’s off. Or maybe it’s my black soul. Whatever, one of those two tells me that beneath the picture perfect surface, he may secretly be a homophobe, or rude to waiters, or mean to animals. Who knows, maybe he likes to kick cats when no one is watching.
Mr. Perfect is still staring, and has yet to say a word. Nor does he have to. My skin is burning from his shrewd assessment.
Take a good look, you sick cat kicking motherfu…
“I was under the impression you needed a lawyer.” His deep voice is even and unaffected. Is he under the impression that I need him to get me out of a parking ticket? What’s next, a yawn?
He slips his cell phone into his jacket pocket and crosses his arms. I meet his bullshit blasé attitude with one of my own. Except I go for bored, as if it’s every day I hang out in jails looking like the newest member of the Suicide Squad. “Aren’t you a sports lawyer, or corporate lawyer, or something?”
“I’m licensed to practice.”
Dandy. Just dandy. “Did you speak to Camilla? Is she coming?”
Camilla and Vaughn forged an unlikely friendship last year while she was working for Calvin, as a nanny slash teacher for his nephew Sam. She has a soft spot for this guy, and for the life of me I cannot figure out why.
“Yes.”
That’s it? No other explanation? The silence continues. Apparently not. His cool gaze sweeps down my person once again and my spine snaps straight. I got this. This is what I’m good at. On the inside I’m a blubbering, embarrassed mess, where as on the outside I’m stoic with a capital S, smooth as silk and just as cool. I’m an actress, playing pretend is my thing. I’ve got skillz in this department. Thus, digging down deep into my bag of skillz, I level him with my most devil-may-care stare.