Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 91079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
I rummage through the drawers by the sink and find a brand new toothbrush and some toothpaste. Then I towel dry my hair and wipe the remaining water from my skin.
Dressed in nothing but a towel, I peek out of the bathroom and find that I’m alone. Jake must still be in his office. Cam must be doing whatever it is he does. And the fear that Jake might kill me if he found me in his apartment must have washed away in the shower. Because suddenly, the idea of watching T.V., wrapped in that warm blanket, curled up on his couch doesn’t scare me in the least.
Despite the scalding water from my shower and warmth of the living room, I still feel chilled. I have a stuffy nose. My head hurts. Bones are achy. I pray like hell I’m coming down with a cold. I’m a sucker for a damsel-in-distress, and though my That Guy has proven to be a pain in the ass on both our encounters, I’m positive he’ll take pity on me and nurse me back to health.
In between my fantasy thoughts of him exiting his office and gathering me in his arms, reality surfaces and I’m forced to think like an adult.
Today could’ve gone a lot differently. What if I hadn’t made that call to Jake’s office? What if I was stuck back in that cell with Big Bertha? What if Jake had called the police and had me arrested when he came home last night? Or when I showed up today? What if he does once he discovers I’m still here?
I need a phone charger. I need to call Emily. Upload my video. Reschedule my flight. Make Jake fall in love with me. Write a bestselling novel about me and my That Guy. Introduce Cam to Emily. Write another bestselling novel about the two of them. Find a shark to loan me money until I get my millions.
Someone knocks on the door. I mute Judge Judy and glance at Jake’s office, waiting for him to charge from it to see who is here. When the knock sounds again and no one moves to answer it, I take it upon myself to do it—because answering the door in a house that doesn’t belong to you is exactly what people with no sense do.
The man on the other side of the door is Jake Swagger—forty or so years from now. Other than the white hair and lines around his mouth and eyes, he looks just like him. Strong build. Hard jaw. Brooding expression. Oceanic eyes. He even glares at me in annoyance and distaste. Probably because I’m only dressed in a towel, but still…these damn mean-mugging stares are getting old.
“Hello, Mr. Swagger.” Something about knowing who he is without really knowing makes me feel less inferior to him.
“Let me guess…you’re Miss Sims.”
Here we go with this shit again…
Without waiting for my reply, he pushes past me. He makes some noise in the back of his throat as he does—disapproval? Disgust? Both?
“Actually, I’m Miss Hart. But you can call me Penelope.”
“Where is my grandson?”
I knew it! I want to smile. Fist pump the air because I was right. But I refrain from celebrating. I will not let my small victory interfere with my mission—to make a good impression on the future Jake Swagger.
“He’s taking a call in his office.” Maybe. “Can I get you something to drink?” I offer. But Ol’ Pee-Paw Swagger makes himself at home. He pulls open the cabinet on the entertainment center and grabs a decanter and a glass.
I stand, willing myself not to fidget, as he pours a drink then turns to me. He studies me while he sips his whiskey. At eight in the morning. But hey, who am I to judge?
“Do you not have clothes?”
I flush and let out a nervous laugh. “It’s a funny story, really—“
“I doubt I’d find humor in anything pertaining to your line of work, Miss Sims. So please, spare me the details as to how you ended up answering a door that doesn’t belong to you, dressed in only a towel.”
It’s hard to hold your chin up and be proud when you’re dressed like I am, looking up at a man who carries himself with an air of authority. Not Steve Jobs-authority. Not Henry Frick-authority. Fucking Hitler authority. Good thing I’m not easily frightened.
“My name is Penelope.”
He makes that fucking noise again. I’m not as forgiving about it as I was a few minutes ago. He has about one more time to—
“I sure hope he pays you well. Although I can’t imagine there’s any sum of money that would be worth a person’s dignity.” He looks me up and down with a slow shake of his head. His lip curls into the same scowl Jake wore when he found out the bag on his bar was full of dog shit.