Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 529(@250wpm)___ 441(@300wpm)
She flicks her gaze to the ceiling. “This is one of the ones where…ugh!” She squeezes her hands together in front of her face like she’s choking someone.
“You sure you don’t want me to stay down here? In case you need me to escort someone out?”
It must be bad because she considers the offer a bit longer this time.
“No, it’ll be too hard to explain why you’re here to my dad.”
God forbid you tell him we’re—yeah, I get why she wouldn’t want to tell him we’re fuck buddies.
“If you need me, text.”
She seems to relax a fraction, a hint of the Margot I’ve missed making an appearance. “Thank you.” She steps closer and rests her hand on my arm. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Why is it so easy for her to say how she feels when I couldn’t do it if I had a gun to my head?
After she returns to the appointment, I slip into the parlor across the hall so I don’t have to pass Cedarwood’s office again. I push through the swinging door and search the kitchen for the pizza place menu.
Calzones. Chicken wings. Pizza. Fuck it. I order a bunch of stuff, give them my card number, then head upstairs.
The code works on her door, and I push my way inside.
Gretel’s sitting by the entry closet, flicking her tail as if she’s annoyed no one’s been around to entertain her.
“Hey, girl,” I murmur, crouching down to pet her. “Miss me?”
She stares at me, allows me to stroke my hand over her back once, then turns around and walks away, tail held high in the air.
“I guess I deserve that.” I shrug off my cut and hang it in the closet.
It’s weird to be in Margot’s space without her. That she trusts me enough to leave me alone in her apartment when she’s not here feels like we’re already building back our relation—whatever this is.
Or she didn’t want you to wait downstairs where her father might see you.
I take off my boots and leave them near the closet, then pad into the kitchen. Good thing I ordered so much food, her fridge is full of sparkling water, eggs, and not much else.
I grab a bottle of water, unscrew it and take a quick sip. My gaze lands on the lounge chair. The place of our first “lesson.” Maybe I’ll strip down, pose on the lounger, and greet her like something out of a bad porno when she gets back.
Nah, too soon.
There really isn’t anywhere else to sit, though.
I sink into the chair. Margot’s scent is all around me—a mixture of something floral and crisp. Underneath that, a faint pungent scent like vinegar lingers. Chemicals from her job? I’ve never noticed it before. Gretel jumps up and curls herself into a ball next to me. I absently stroke my fingers over her fur. After a while, her purring kicks into high gear.
I pull out my phone and check the restaurant app. The food hasn’t even left the place yet. Then I send Teller a text letting him know things are okay here and ask if Charlotte’s okay.
A few seconds later, he responds.
Teller: We’re good. Thx for taking care of that.
The stack of books on the table next to me grabs my attention and I set my phone down.
Deadly Women Throughout History, Encyclopedia of Serial Killers, Handbook of Crime Scene Forensics, Investigation of Death, and History of Poison.
What the ever-loving fuck is she into?
None of those are light, fluffy books to unwind with after a long day of caring for dead people. They’re death-adjacent but not quite related to her work.
Curious, I pull myself out of the chair and walk over to the bookcases. More non-fiction on these shelves. Lots and lots of true crime books, chemistry books, some books on burial customs and funeral rites. At least they all sound like normal titles for someone in her profession. Further down, she has a collection of romance novels. I pull out a few titles to see if Trinity has designed any of the covers or if I recognize the models. One copyright page lists Trinity H. Ramsey as the photographer and designer. And even though the bulky, muscled and oiled model on the front is only pictured from chin to abs, I’d bet my Harley it’s Wrath.
I grab my phone, take a quick picture, and send it to Rooster.
Me: Found one in the wild. Should I send to Wrath?
Rooster responds with a row of laughing face emojis.
Instead of antagonizing Wrath, I send the photo to Trinity with the same “found in the wild” caption, knowing how excited she’ll be to see her work on someone’s shelf.
Two texts come in at the same time.
Rooster: Where are you?
Trinity: OMG! Where?
That was a mistake. I don’t bother answering either one.
The door clicks open behind me.