Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 326(@200wpm)___ 261(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
I wasn’t really sure how I’d gotten started writing anonymous letters. That was a lie. I knew exactly where it’d started. I just didn’t want to acknowledge the heartache that I knew would arise at the thought of the reason.
Faye. My stepsister who’d passed away a little over a year ago. Faye, one of the only good things in my life besides my father after my own mother had exited my life. Faye, who’d been the method behind the madness.
At one point, Faye hadn’t liked one of her doctors that she’d seen on the regular for cancer treatments. So, like the caring, loving, unable to show it in normal ways sibling that I was, I’d written an anonymous letter to the doctor’s office explaining all the things that made Faye uncomfortable.
The very next day, there were a few staff missing that’d made it a hostile environment, and there were more comfortable chairs in the waiting room.
And Faye had jokingly said that I should do what I’d done for her for everyone. And make a living out of it.
So I had.
Now, when I wasn’t working at the bar with my father, I was slammed with requests for anonymous letters to be sent all over the world. I even had a PO box where I sent the letters out of, using a dummy LLC name I’d made up, and was officially official in the eyes of the law to do it under.
The bar door opened and closed, and I felt my attention switch from my sister’s usual seat to the bar top.
“We’re closed,” I said.
“I know.”
I felt my head snapping up in response to that deep, delicious voice.
Easton.
My breathing hitched in my throat, and I felt my back straighten in response.
“Ummm.” I hesitated. “Easton. What’s up?”
Today, Easton was in work clothes.
A fancy suit that fit him like a glove, one with pinstripes on it that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe combined.
And goddamn, man, could Easton fill out that suit.
His broad shoulders were straight, his chin lifted, and only the barest hint of stubble dotted his stellar jaw. And today, I could see the dimple in his left cheek as he flashed a warm smile my way.
According to my sources—i.e., the drunk Battle Crows MC members that came into my bar on a regular basis—Easton worked at a tech company that worked with the military.
The MC members were unsure whether Easton actually owned that place or not.
But when I’d Googled Easton and this company, absolutely nothing came up. Not a name. Not a Google review. Not a single thing that would give me any indication about the man that looked at me like I was the bane of his existence.
I didn’t know why he looked at me like that. Like I’d taken the last cookie off the baking sheet. But I didn’t like it.
Which automatically made me more prickly than I was to begin with.
“Easton.” I paused, wondering if he’d make me say more. He did. “What can I do for you today?”
As in, why the fuck are you in my bar so early in the goddamn morning?
It was only nine in the morning. Why was he here when the bar didn’t open for hours yet?
“Banger.” He stopped. “I’m here because I got an interesting letter, and I wanted to know if you knew anything about it?”
My lips twitched hard.
Last week, he’d pissed me off.
He’d stiffed me my tip.
Normally, that wouldn’t piss me off. Not really. I knew the deal.
Some people tipped. Other people didn’t.
But Easton consistently didn’t.
And it annoyed the ever-loving shit out of me, so I sent him an anonymous letter.
So sue me.
I crossed my arms over my chest and stared at him.
“And?” I asked.
“And it’s come to my attention that this establishment works on tips, and I wasn’t aware.” He paused as he reached into his pocket and pulled out five hundred-dollar bills. My heart started to pound as he threw that money on the table in front of me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
I tilted my head. “You do realize, Easton, that every single restaurant and bar in the entire United States works on tips. Most servers get paid like two bucks an hour. How did you not know that you had to tip?”
He hesitated, looking as if he was about to vomit. Then said, “I’ve never been in a bar before. Not without working or someone else paying. I just assumed you were paid a living wage.”
I barely stopped the eye roll.
“You’ve never been in a bar before?” I drawled, sounding just as incredulous as I felt.
“Nope.” He crossed his arms defensively over his chest, making the understated muscles in his chest bulge out. “Like I said, before I joined the Battle Crows MC, I didn’t go to bars. A, I never had time. B, bars are useless. It’s cheaper to drink at home.”