Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 149982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 750(@200wpm)___ 600(@250wpm)___ 500(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 750(@200wpm)___ 600(@250wpm)___ 500(@300wpm)
I waffle between the options before I land on one:
Professional.
Keep it professional.
I settle with this plan as we reach Jack’s apartment.
Protocol: I answer Charlie’s doors and knock on the ones he visits.
But before I put my fist to the wood, I look to Charlie.
My client leans a shoulder next to the doorframe, his brows rising like he knows what I’m about to ask. “You’ll find out why we’re here in five seconds,” he says. “I’m not about to ruin the surprise.”
“Who said I was going to be surprised?” I knock on the door. I always plan for the unpredictable with Charlie.
The door swings open.
Jack Highland stands on the other side.
I cage my breath.
A yellow sweat-stained Under Armour shirt suctions to his muscular chest like he just returned from the gym. Smart watch on his wrist, one wireless earbud in his left ear, and running shorts all add up.
“We interrupt something?” I ask, worried Charlie didn’t have a meeting with Jack at all. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s showed up somewhere unannounced.
Jack shakes his head. “Not at all. I’ve been waiting for you guys.” He pushes the door open wider, and I slip past him, avoiding his eyes.
He clears his throat. “Sorry I didn’t have time to take a shower.”
I bite back a comment about how he still smells good. My pulse thumps loudly in my ears. Professional. It’s usually not hard for me to dip into work-mode. I take my job seriously.
Quickly, I assess Jack’s apartment. It’s the first time I’ve ever been here.
My first thought: how does a six-foot-four guy live in something so…small?
The space is tinier than even my studio, and I live in Hell’s Kitchen. A gray sofa rests against the same wall as a murphy bed (currently drawn up and hidden), and I’m guessing the metal bins in an open-faced cabinet are his dresser, all of which resides under the only window. A surfboard is propped in the corner. One that looks old and used.
Jack surfs.
Didn’t know that.
Even if he’s born and bred in Southern California, I’m not going to assume every Cali stereotype applies, even if they do.
We’re all a lot of where we come from, just as much as we are the people who raised us and who we’ve met along the way.
His place doesn’t even have a full kitchen. Just a mini-fridge and microwave. I look around for the TV, thinking he has to have one. He’s an exec producer. That’s his job. But I can’t find it.
I have so many fucking questions.
But that would involve actually staring him directly in the eyes. Not about to do that. My gaze plants on the only window. Just one. Well, that makes my job easier.
Charlie steps into the apartment behind me, and I give him a look. “Stay here.”
He nods.
For as much of a pain as Charlie can be, he does listen to me sometimes. I glance to Jack, who’s busy locking the door. “Can I sweep your place real quick?”
He doesn’t turn around as he says, “There’s not much here but go for it.”
I slip into the bathroom first, and it’s bigger than I expected. I pull back the plain shower curtain. Empty.
A cardboard box is tucked under a rack of towels. Flaps open, I can see some suits and expensive loafers inside. Not sure why he’s packing his suits in a box. But I don’t stare long or dig through it. I try not to let my eyes roam to Jack’s personal belongings. Like his brand of shampoo or the magazines in the wicker basket by the door.
I don’t need to know more about him than I already do.
It’ll be like rubbing salt into an opened wound, and I just need that shit to heal as quickly as it can.
I check all the usual spots for any mics or electronics that could be recording. Satisfied, I return to the living area. Charlie is already on the couch, and Jack sits across from him on a plastic fold-out chair.
“Do you want it for personal or commercial use?” Jack asks my client.
My muscles tense.
What the fuck are you up to, Charlie?
Floorboards squeak as I walk further in the room. Jack and Charlie glance over at me.
“Everything good?” Jack asks.
“So far,” I say. “I just need to check that window.”
Jack is currently occupying the middle of the entire room. He stands quickly as I step closer. “You really think I would bug my apartment?” He sounds more curious than dispirited.
“Doesn’t matter what I think,” I tell him. “It’s protocol.” Jack might be trusted in the inner-circle, but his place hasn’t been cleared today. I slide past his chest, an inch of air between us. I don’t know if it was my words or our past that puts an invisible strain between us. But I can tell we’re both holding our breaths.