Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 52355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 209(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
He’s shirtless, only wearing a pair of athletic shorts. When he turns to walk over to the refrigerator, the sight of his bare chest sends a pang of longing through me.
If only I could be completely mad at him. Instead, I’m about fifty percent mad and fifty percent still turned on from our unfinished romp yesterday morning.
“Do you really think I see you as a prop?” I ask as I sip my coffee.
He takes a block of cheese from the refrigerator, meets my gaze and nods. “Yeah. I’m a means to an end for you.”
“Our arrangement is mutually beneficial. I’m not using you if we’re both getting something out of it.”
He shrugs as he grates cheese onto a plate. “You see everyone as a prop. You’re the puppet master, making sure everyone around you knows you’ve got them dangling on strings.”
Okay, that stings. I’ve been a good team owner. I take care of the people who work for our organization, giving the front office staff an industry-leading benefits package that includes paid mental health and maternity leave. The team has to play eighty-two games per season, so there’s less I can do for them, but I pay them well.
“If I were a man, you’d call me a closer. An alpha who never backs down. But because I’m a woman, I’m a bitch.”
He moves his skillet from one burner to another, turning the heat off. “I’ve never called you a bitch. Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“You know what I mean.”
He slides his omelet onto a plate. “What do you want from me?”
“I want to know why you blew up yesterday.”
His jaw tenses and his eyes flash with anger. “Why do you blow up? Happens all the time and you never explain yourself.”
I look away because he has me there. I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve.
“I thought we were getting along and everything was good,” I say helplessly shrugging my shoulders.
“I’m still playing my part.”
I exhale through my nose, frustrated. Grabbing my travel cup, I leave for the office.
Life is easier without personal relationships. I have a handful of friends I can call anytime, but other than that, I’m happier alone. Life has been total chaos since I married Colby, and I know we won’t be able to fool the world forever.
On the drive to the office, I call the Coyotes attorney, Peter.
“Morning, boss,” he says.
“Hey, I know you probably aren’t in yet but I have meetings all morning so I just wanted to catch you while I can.”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“I need Mills to ease off me on the situation we recently discussed in my office.”
After a moment of silence, he says, “But isn’t that situation resolved?”
We have to talk in code, just in case. I wouldn’t put it past Mills to resort to tapping my phones, either personal or in the office somehow.
“I don’t think the current resolution will be permanent,” I say. “I think you should explore opportunities to make friends at a federal level.”
Translation: I’m willing to make a huge donation to someone higher up than Mills in exchange for them getting him to back off me. Then Colby and I can quietly divorce and I can have my life back.
“Understood,” Peter says. “I’ll make some calls.”
Why didn’t I think of this sooner? It’s the cleanest way out of this mess.
“You sure you’re okay?” Quentin asks me a couple of hours later.
“I’m fine.”
He’s standing in the door between our offices, his expression skeptical.
“Did you…lose your makeup?” he asks.
I glare at him, not in the mood to be called out for my natural look today. I planned to put makeup on after I talked to Colby, but then I walked out the door and forgot about it.
“I’m giving my skin a breather.”
“Okay. Are you ready for me to get your 10:00 a.m. call on the line?”
I glance at the schedule on my computer. 10:00 a.m. call with the fire marshal about getting access to my apartment. I need to get in there to see if my artwork is damaged and hopefully get some things from my closet.
“Yes, I’m ready,” I say.
As soon as I get on the call, I get right to business.
“When can I get back into my apartment?” I ask.
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to,” the fire marshal says.
I furrow my brow, grabbing a pen in case I need to throw one across the room. “What do you mean? We have to be able to get in at some point. My insurance company needs to see if my art is damaged.”
“The building isn’t structurally sound. We’re in the process of condemning it.”
I lean my elbow on my desk, my forehead resting in my palm. “Okay, well, before you condemn it, I need to get my art pieces packaged up and moved out of there. I have a very valuable Russian art collection. Some of it is actually priceless because it’s irreplaceable.”