Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66732 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
“What the—” he starts but never gets to finish because his body slams against the far wall with a loud thud.
“She very clearly told you to get the fuck away from her!”
I stare, struck mute. Because there, holding the man by the throat, is Silas Cruz.
“You think a few drinks buys you what exactly?” he asks the man in that low, warning voice of his.
“Hey man, she was sitting there on her own. I was just being friendly. Just wanted a thank you, that’s all—"
“A thank you?” Silas asks, tone incredulous. He thrusts the man’s head against the wall. “How did you expect her to thank you?”
“Silas!” I scream, leaping for him, managing to knock my forehead into his elbow as he draws back to swing at the man. I stumble, dazed, and fall on my ass, but at least I manage to get his attention and stop him from punching the guy.
“Shit!” Silas crouches down and takes hold of me. He tilts my face up to his, touches the spot on my forehead that his elbow caught.
“I’m okay,” I say, and we both turn to find the guy who was eagerly buying drinks earlier running out of the bathroom. “Problem solved, I guess,” I say, looking at Silas, who is searching my face, frowning.
“What are you doing, O?” O. He’s the only man who calls me that, and there’s a part of me that gets a thrill whenever I hear it.
“Just getting a drink,” I say, my words coming out slower than usual. “It’s been a long day.” Long year.
He exhales, helps me to stand. I stumble backward when he lets me go, and he catches me again, shakes his head.
“I counted three martinis, which is two too many given your size. Did you drink before you got here?”
“You were counting my martinis?” I ask, eyebrows raised. Had he noticed me from the moment I walked in?
He nods once as if he just realized what he gave away.
“Your supermodel date not keeping you entertained enough, you had to count my drinks?”
He snorts.
I roll my eyes, try to tug free of his grip but stumble. “You’d better get back to her. She was giving me looks already.”
“Was she?” He looks me over. It’s the first time he’s seen me in a long time, too, I guess. At least I’ve had glimpses of him online. The only time he’d have seen me is maybe in the background when Dad was on the news. Or those times reporters would track me down to ask what I thought of what my father had done.
I take a deep breath in and exhale.
“Where’s pretty boy?” he asks, referring to Ethan.
“I’m alone.”
He studies me, one eyebrow raised, a look that has my stomach doing somersaults and my face heating up.
“And I’m going home,” I say, realizing I’m more than a little drunk. I clear my throat and I intend to walk past him, but of course he doesn’t let me go.
“I’ll take you.”
“I’m just a few blocks—”
“I’ll take you.” I have a flashback to when I was sixteen and he insisted on walking me home in our cul-de-sac.
“You haven’t changed,” I say.
“You have,” he tells me, face like stone. It sends something cold down my spine. Silas pushes the door open, and we walk out into the restaurant. He picks up my coat from where I’d draped it over the chair and holds it out for me to slip my arms into. I do.
“Does she have a credit card here?” Silas asks the bartender who nods. “I’ll take it. Put her drinks on my bill.”
“Yes, Mr. Cruz.”
I look over at him, eyebrows raised. He takes my card and drops it into my clutch, then hands me the bag, but holds onto my scarf and hat as we head toward the door.
“How do they know you?” I ask him as we walk out.
“Business,” he says, his answer vague.
A sedan pulls up in front of us. Silas opens the back door and gestures for me to get in.
“I live a few blocks away. I’m fine,” I say, reaching for my hat and scarf.
“You’re not fine. You’re drunk. It’s snowing. You’re wearing ridiculous shoes for the weather. And your legs are bare.” His eyes are on my legs.
He drags his gaze back up to mine, eyes darker than usual.
I swallow hard.
“They’re not ridiculous,” I stammer.
He grins. “Right. Even if you weren’t drunk and wearing proper shoes, I wouldn’t let you walk home alone. Get in, O. I won’t ask again.”
“What will you do, deposit me in the car?” I ask, hand on my hip.
He looks at me like it’s a no brainer.
“Well, okay then.” With a sigh—and also because honestly the vodka is hitting me and it’s freezing and the snow has picked up, not to mention that the shoes are ridiculous for the weather—I get in. Silas follows.