Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75373 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
And since we couldn’t open the totes, we did all we could. We just loaded them into the truck, closed the unit, climbed in the truck, and left.
“Those were significantly heavier than they should have been,” Dante said as soon as we were on the highway again.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Maybe they have more product in them.”
“We going all the way back to the docks now?” Dom asked, looking out the side window. “We’re more than halfway to the other unit from here.”
My stomach twisted into tighter knots.
But for whatever reason, I decided to ignore it.
The sooner we got all the units empty, the closer we were to getting all this shit handled once and for all.
So we drove toward the next unit in a much lower-tech facility. I swear the cameras were straight out of the nineties.
“Let’s be quick at this one,” I said, not liking the vibe of the place.
It was another interior unit, but half the lights inside weren’t working, making all of us tense as we unlocked the unit and then moved in to grab boxes.
Like we were all on the same uncomfortable wavelength, Dom grabbed one of the old, rusty cart. It squeaked to high hell, but we all wanted to make as short of work as possible of this unit. We piled on all of the boxes, then two of us pushed the heavy cart back outside.
“Millions of product in a place like that?” Dom asked as soon as we were on the road back to Navesink Bank again.
“I wanna know if it’s all product,” Dante said. “It felt different. Even shifted differently inside when we moved them.”
It seemed like it took forever to get back to the docks. Or maybe that was just my weird mood, the tension that was coiled in all of my muscles.
That tightness didn’t lessen as I drove the moving truck to the shipping container at the docks or when we each started to climb in to began removing the totes.
“I just have to check,” Dante said. He reached for one of the yellow lids.
“Santo!” a voice called, sounding tight and tense, making me stiffen.
That was Luca.
And he rarely ever sounded that worried.
“What is it?” I asked, rushing out of the truck, jumping off the back as he strode forward.
“Your fucking phone is off,” he snapped.
I waved back toward the truck, indicating why the phones were off.
“What is it? What happened?”
“There was an emergency at your house.”
“My house?”
My house?
Was Dasha still there?
Was she okay?
“What happened?” I asked, my voice choked.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Dasha
I was actually sore.
Like in all my muscles sore.
My thighs groaned as I forced them to carry my weight to the bathroom. My stomach muscles even felt achy, like I’d done a thousand sit-ups.
I mean, I wasn’t complaining. Santo’s stamina the night before meant I’d nearly seen into a new dimension with the last orgasm or two.
It had been incredible.
I even got little flutters at the memory.
In fact, I got flutters pretty much anytime I thought about Santo.
I was pretty damn sure at this point that I was no longer just crushing on the man, but had fallen. Hard, in fact.
It didn’t seem like it should be possible so soon. But the more time I spent with him, the more sure I felt about him, about a future, about rings and babies and forevers.
I squinted at the light shining in through the blinds in the bathroom, confused why it was so bright outside.
Had I overslept?
Why hadn’t Santo woken me up?
As I brushed my teeth, I went back to grab my phone, my eyes nearly bugging out of my head at the time I saw there.
I was late. Like an hour late for work.
I hated being late. I was one of those ‘if you’re not early, you’re late’ people. And while I understood that I was the boss and I had no set schedule, I felt like I needed to be at the shop at a reasonable hour.
So I forewent the shower I really wanted, pulling my messy hair back into a lazy ponytail, and slipped into the first dress I grabbed, put my feet into ballet flats, and rushed downstairs.
“Santo?” I called, following the scent of coffee to the kitchen. But the burner under the pot was already off.
Santo had been gone for a while. He would have had hot coffee for me otherwise.
There was a bag on the counter and a notepad beside it.
Already late, I decided I could quickly butter a bagel to eat as I drove to work.
I read Santo’s note, not realizing I was smiling at just the thought of him stopping to write it for me.
Bagel in one hand—and Santo’s note in my other because I wanted to look at it again later like the lovesick fool I was—I made my way toward the front door where my purse was sitting.