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)
“Very well, Miss. We’ll be there soon.”
The car pulls into traffic and I have a three-second freak out.
What have I done?
I’m so stupid.
This car is so warm.
I could use a drink.
Fuck it.
The bag of dog shit hits the floor and I squat-wobble to the bench seat across from me. The decanter is heavy and hard to manage. I wrangle it between my legs and pull hard on the cork. When the suction gives way, my hand flies back and smacks me in the face.
“Son of a bitch!” I clear my throat. “Son of a bitch!” I repeat, in accent.
The whiskey is so strong it singes my nose hairs when I take a big sniff. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing but I pour a glass anyway. Or a finger. Whatever they call it. I contemplate adding ice, unsure of how this is supposed to be served.
I wish they had beer.
This gasoline they call liquor burns all the way to my toes. But it has a nice, smoky flavor that lingers on my tongue. Anxious for the next sip, I finish off the glass and by the time it’s empty, I feel warm all over. And a little more confident in the bad decisions that placed me here.
I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? I rode in a car. There’s no law against catching a ride to escape the blistering cold. If I get caught, I’ll just frown and tell them I’m poor.
That’s not a lie.
I am poor.
Which is another reason I made this trip—though I’ll never admit that to Emily.
In addition to my seek-and-destroy plan, I’m hoping to find my perfect muse so I can finally write that sexy, cliché romance I’ve been attempting for months. The kind of romance with the hero who I refer to as That Guy.
You know, the super-rich, powerful CEO who is beyond sexy. Lives in a penthouse. Is wicked in bed. Has a driver. A big cock. Is kind of an asshole, but really he’s not because he harbors some major secret that you find out at sixty-five percent, which explains all his past demons that reveal why he is the way he is—therefore completely redeeming himself and making all the readers who hated to love him swoon.
The car stops.
“Miss Sims?” It’s the intercom voice again. “Would you like me to walk you up?”
“N-no. That won’t be necessary.”
Why do I keep using that accent?
“If you don’t feel comfortable with the concierge—“
“The concierge is fine. Thank you.”
On cue, the door opens and a gloved hand reaches inside. I take the offered hand, grab my bag of shit and exit the car.
The sudden blast of strong winds causes my eyes to water. My fingers squeeze and I cast a side glance to the man next to me. He offers me a polite smile and a nod. I look up, up, up at the massive building, then back at him.
“What kind of apartment has a concierge?” My voice carries away in the wind as he pulls me into the lobby. I stop just inside the door and stare. The snow and ice on my ruined Uggs melts into the dark rug as I take in everything. Mouth hung open like an idiot, I scan the entry and all its opulence.
Soft, cream-colored furniture arranged in a semi-circle faces a gray stone fireplace that stretches all the way to the top of the high ceilings. The orange and red flames inside the hearth dance and sway to the faint sounds of classical music that plays throughout the room. I want to stick my hands and frozen ass to the fire, then sprawl out like a cat on the thick rug in front of it.
“This way, Miss Sims.”
I follow the man through the room. My boots squeak against the marble floors and leave a trail of dirty water in their wake. I twist my head up and around. Everything is gold and glass. Accented with hints of yellows and grays. From vases to hanging lights, sculptures and paintings, the place radiates a magnificence far fancier than anything this small-town girl has ever seen.
“If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ring me.” Alfred—I shit you not that’s what his name tag reads—comes to a stop in front of a massive elevator door. The solid, flat black color is a stark contrast to the other four elevator doors that are mirrored glass tinted in gold. As he slides a card through the little back box next to the door with a big “P” over it, I chance a look into one of the mirrors.
My curly brown hair sticks out all over my head like broken twigs and falls over my shoulders to the middle of my back. My “all weather” jacket that’s appropriate in Mississippi is nothing more than a raincoat in Chicago. And my once fashionable skinny jeans, are now soggy and sag heavily on my hips. Stretched out from being worn so long, one might think a covey of quails just flew out of the ass of my pants.