Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
“Dad…,” I call out as a wave of misery comes ripping back, separating the air from my lungs.
Turning, he watches me struggle to control myself. “I didn’t know Lainey well, but I do know she cared about you. I know she wouldn’t want this for you…my advice––for what it’s worth––start focusing on what she would want.”
My mind immediately goes to Eli. But that’s water under the bridge.
Chapter One
Riley
Five Months Later…
There are two types of people in this world…
Wait. Wait. Strike that. Start over. There are three types of people in this world. There are people that make lemonade when life hands them a bunch of lemons. Major praise to those folks. There are people who accept the lemons and do nothing other than whine and complain about them––arguably the worst of the lot. And then there are the rest, a handful of people who take those same lemons and shove them up life’s…well, you get the picture. The jury is still out on which category I fall under.
“Watch where you’re going,” I hear as a pair of large hands slam onto my shoulders.
The voice is deep and rough and has a hard edge to it. It gets on my nerves. Which isn’t hard to do these days since my nerves have already been tenderized by a lack of sleep and an overabundance of responsibilities. But this is a different kind of annoyance. The worst kind. This voice reeks of condescension and entitlement and I’m in no mood for either of those things tonight. Not when I’m working my fourth straight shift waiting tables at one of the Meat Packing District’s most exclusive restaurants.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
Don’t read too much into it. It’s a knee-jerk reaction. I need this job. Need it like I need oxygen. Which means I won’t do anything to jeopardize it. Which also means I watch how I act, watch what I look like, and watch what I say.
What I do not have to do, however, is watch where I go. Anyway, this jerk turned into me.
I look up, no doubt wearing my best bitch face, and…blink.
Important to note that the interior of this place is moody with a masculine vibe. Silk burnished brown wallpaper covers the walls. There’s a lots of brass and velvet upholstery. The handblown Chihuly chandeliers offer only a chintzy glow. My point is the lights are dim as you-know-what up in here and all I see is a pair of intense dark eyes. They take me off guard and keep me in place, staring up at him in fascination like a brain-dead mule.
I mean he’s handsome––there’s no question. For starters, he has a mouth made for kissing: pouty but not in a feminine way. All his bones are in the right place and at the right angles. His dark hair is short and styled within an inch of its life by someone who probably charges what I call a mortgage payment and he calls pocket change.
If there was anything remotely human about this guy, I would rate him as drop-dead gorgeous. But there’s no getting beyond the plastic, never-been-taken-out-of-the-box quality to him. All I feel is a cold distance in this guy’s face. Like no one is inhabiting the body standing before me. It’s just a yawning hollow space. This is where the momentary interest fades and I return to reality. And reality is the table of seven whose order I need to take.
Shrugging off his grip, I make my way to the table. They’ve been trying to get my attention for the past two minutes and this is not the sort of crowd you want to keep waiting––one of the guests is the mayor’s best friend.
But as I’m fake-smiling through my apology to them, something gets my attention. A strange sensation that causes me to look in the direction of the rude guy. He’s still standing where I left him, staring back at me with a frown, his expression borderline confused.
It lasts a fraction of a minute before he shakes it off and turns in the direction of the bar. As short as it is, however, it leaves a gnawing level of discomfort that I am unaccustomed to feeling. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, but it’s undeniable.
“Miss…,” one of the diners says.
Which jerks me out of my musings. Looking around, I find myself the center of attention of the entire table and a hot flush of embarrassment covers my face.
“Sorry,” I mutter. If it were physically possible for me to kick my own ass, I’d be at it right now.
But whatever. Other than that strange moment, life goes on and the rest of the night proceeds like clockwork. We end up running out of the black squid fettuccini special. Patty argues with Chef about the temperature of the wagyu steak as usual. Chef screams at Patty that the customer “knows less than a sewer rat’s ass about food,” half of which was said in French. Nothing out of the ordinary.