Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 686(@200wpm)___ 549(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
I give her the coldest smile.
Let’s not make this personal, even if it already is. Better to keep her at a distance.
“Colt keeps me busy,” I say.
Then I walk out and leave her in peace, hoping like hell I don’t regret this.
I don’t have a spare minute until evening, when I can finally sit down in the living room with my laptop and a glass of cold brew.
I have Winnie’s full name from her booking details, so I punch it into Google.
The first result is a brief tabloid article trumpeting the “Emberly-Corban Power Wedding Meltdown!”
Brutally interesting.
I scan the piece for info, and fuck, there it is.
When she mentioned powerful connections, she neglected to tell me her father oversees justice in the whole goddamned state.
I thought I recognized his name, and now I know why.
The man who called the office hounding us for his daughter’s whereabouts is none other than Carroll Jackson Emberly III, the Attorney General of Missouri.
My eyes scan the article, quickly reading.
The engagement was announced late last year by Missouri Attorney General Carroll Emberly and Senator Klein Corban, the father of the groom.
A DC senator.
Bingo again.
When she said she’d spent some time as a staffer, I didn’t know she was working for her own future father-in-law.
Technically, father-in-nothing now.
The more I read, the more this feels like some bizarre medieval arranged marriage. Aside from her name, there’s no mention of Winnie until the end.
Some photographer took a grainy image of her hunched behind the wheel of her car, wedding dress on and angry determination in her eyes.
It doesn’t take long to find that picture everywhere on social media.
I’m amazed there’s no attempt to squelch it to save the family some embarrassment. I’m no stranger to rich political types with their heads lodged up their asses. The only thing they hate more than losing money is having their drama splashed out in public.
The article was posted half an hour ago. No doubt Mr. Attorney General will try to have it pulled, but it may be too late, judging by the views and shares stacking up.
The spectacle draws laughs and predictably shitty comments from locals like a lightning rod.
Damn.
Out of morbid interest, I look for Winnie herself on social media. Her accounts are private, but her profile picture shows a laughing redhead holding flowers.
I don’t bother blowing up the image to see, but I can almost guarantee there’s a small fluffy bee on one of them.
I snort loudly.
She may be bonkers, but she’s still a smoke show, and I’m not normally blue balling over textbook crazy redhead types.
There’s something different about her face here. Not just a filter or the fact a professional clearly took the photo.
There’s something real and gentle and beguiling about her, like this photo captured a rare moment where she really was happy. She’s not faking a smile because she’s trying to persuade some stuffy jerkoff to let her rent his star property a little while longer.
My lip curls as I sip my beer.
Do not feel guilty, you asshole.
You have every right to be careful.
Before I get to wonder what a real genuine Winnie smile looks in person too long, Colt comes in. I shut the laptop before he sees I’m gawking at the girl he almost lit on fire.
“Hey, Dad.” His voice only drags a little. He’s covered in dust and cobwebs from cleaning the garage.
“Hey, kiddo. Don’t sit down yet,” I say as he heads over to slump down beside me. “Go shower first. Did you get it all done?”
“Yep, I even cleaned the ATVs. Wiped the old dirt off them and everything.”
Ah, hell.
I may breathe fire that would make a dragon jealous, but it’s impossible to stay mad at him for long.
Even when he did something as remarkably stupid as dicking around with fireworks on a million-dollar rental property. Maybe he’s only doing his chores to get back on my good side, but at least he’s doing them, and without complaining, too.
“All right.” I nod. “You’re telling me you’re done for the evening?”
A quick smile crosses his face, and for a second, he looks like a younger face I used to see in the mirror.
“Better be. I’m beat.”
“Homework done?” It’s not exactly homework, but it’s the summer math stuff he signed up for to prep for organic chemistry this fall.
So far, the accelerated summer class looks like another breeze for my mad scientist son.
If only his common sense was as sharp as the rest of his brains.
“Yeah, it was easy. I thought Calc was gonna be harder.” He hesitates as I shake my head.
“Boy, don’t brag, or I’m putting you to work in accounting next year.”
He chuckles like he always does at my deadpan delivery, slowly tugging at the sleeve of his shirt to pull up a cobweb stuck there.
“Since I’m done with everything, can I go to Uncle Pat’s tonight? He said it’d be cool to have a sitter for Arlo.”