Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
“I wondered what you were going to decide,” the blonde says, sounding amused but polite.
When I don’t answer and look at her in confusion, she points to the windows with a bemused expression. Yep, they’re completely transparent on this side. “You could see me pacing back and forth?” I question stupidly.
Her smile grows, but it seems friendly. “Sure could. Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Cole Harrington,” I blurt out. “My friend—well, she’s my boss—helped me track him down. He’s a hard-to-find man, like nearly impossible, but Gabriella—that’s my friend-slash-boss—is good. Like Cole-should-offer-her-a-job level good,” I recommend with a nod. “Once she had his name, she looked up property records for the county. There’s a bunch, especially under C. Harrington, but a lot of those seemed like they might be Cole’s brothers’ properties. This one seemed different, so I thought maybe it was his. Is it?”
Her eyes get wider and wider as I spill out Gabriella’s entire research process in a single breath.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have come. I’ll just go.”
I turn to make a run for it, but a door I didn’t see opens across the room. And he comes in. Big as life, twice as sexy, and crossing the open room like he’s about to conquer the world . . . or tackle me. I don’t know which, but just seeing him again stops my heart for a moment. He’s in a light blue dress shirt today, one of those types with a white collar and cuffs, to go with his black pants, no tie, but shined dress shoes that click on the tile of the foyer.
And I want him. God help me, I want him.
“Janey?” Cole growls, snapping me back to reality. “What’s wrong?”
“Uhm, what?” I squeak. “Nothing, nothing’s wrong. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.” Instead of explaining how I tracked him down again, I say, “Did you know there’s an Italian place around the corner that’s been there since 1924? It was a speak-easy during Prohibition years, or at least that’s what the sign out front says. I passed it a few times as I was walking the block, trying to talk myself into coming in.”
“She doesn’t have an appointment,” the receptionist offers.
Not listening to either of us, Cole is suddenly in front of me, his blue eyes scanning me head to toe like I might be broken, physically or mentally. Little does he know, despite my current attack of nerves, I’m the best I’ve been in years.
I see worry and confusion and something else that I could almost mistake for lust before his gaze shutters down, going blank.
Frowny face aside, he looks good. His shirt looks perfectly fitted to his superhero upper body, and his dress pants are just slightly tight in all the right places to remind me of what he’s got. His jaw is covered with a couple of days’ worth of scruff that I want to scratch my fingers through, and his lips look kissable.
“Amanda, close up for the day and go home. Thank you,” Cole says as I watch his lips move. I presume he’s talking to the receptionist because I don’t know how to do those things. And of course, my name’s not Amanda.
Cole takes my hand and yanks me across the room past the grouping of chairs. I glance back to find Amada watching in shock. He does the magic trick with the invisible door again, and in an instant, I’m in an echoing stairwell.
“Are you sleeping with her?” I ask. I have so many questions, but that’s the one that pops out of my mouth first.
“Who?” Cole replies, climbing stairs and pulling me with him. I swear I see a tiny hint of a smile, but I probably imagined it because a nanosecond later, he’s frowning again. “Amanda? No. She answers the phone and greets clients. She doesn’t even know what I do.”
“Oh.” I think about what an odd job that must be, but I can understand doing just about anything that’ll pay the bills these days. “Is Louisa here?”
He shakes his head. “Works from home.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember.”
We approach another door, and Cole types a code into a keypad. I hear the click of the lock and then he pushes the door open, revealing a private apartment.
“Is this where you live?” I ask, looking around curiously.
It’s a lot like downstairs—austere, empty, modern, but with a sense of luxury. It doesn’t feel particularly homey, like the leather couch doesn’t seem like a place where you flop to binge watch TV and I wouldn’t dream of putting my feet on the glass coffee table. Overall, it feels anonymous.
Which makes me sad for Cole. He should have a place to relax and be at home. Especially after spending days lying on the forest floor to surveil someone, which reminds me . . .