Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 99282 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99282 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
“Do not leave my side,” I hiss to Yasmine and Kat after we’re done in the entry. I’m worried we’ll get split up and won’t be able to find one another again.
Logan told me this would be a small gathering, but this is a circus of beautiful people all clamoring to have a chat with one another. They pay us absolutely no mind. We might as well be pieces of furniture. One man even tries to set his drink on Kat’s shoulder while he’s not looking, and she has to sort of yelp and leap out of the way to keep it from happening. You’d think he’d be bloody embarrassed about it, but he doesn’t even notice!
“Let’s just find Logan, yeah?” I suggest, though I’m not sure that will make things any better.
This is his party. He’s the ringleader of this circus, and my stomach hurts at the thought. How is that possible? This place is so posh, so upscale, so bloody expensive! Have I imagined that text exchange from earlier? When he asked about the chips? He seemed so charming and down to earth, but this party is the exact opposite.
In one corner of the modern living room, there’s a whole buffet that’s clearly been catered by a world-class chef. The food is up on silver platters with heating lamps and delicate accoutrement I’d probably mistakenly eat only to find out after that it’s only for show. It all looks amazing, and there are tons of tiny samples of tasty treats, but absolutely no one is eating. I see a woman pass by the table, stutter-step, glance down longingly at some pasta dish, and then dash away from it like it might make her arse grow two sizes right then and there if she doesn’t get away quick enough.
But it’s the sight at the very end of the table that catches my eye. It’s like one of those childhood puzzles: Find What Doesn’t Belong. Next to the fancy silver platters and serving dishes, there’s a big red bowl of crisps. Salt and vinegar, just as I requested.
I nearly topple over in sheer bliss. Not only has he thought of me, it’s obvious what he intended by leaving them out like that. I don’t even bother cluing in Kat or Yasmine. They wouldn’t get it. You see the crisps are actually this huge romantic gesture! But they’re just crisps. Right, but he asked specifically what kind I wanted! He could have asked you for your favorite flower if he wanted to be romantic.
Besides, even if I thought they’d agree about how sweet the gesture is, I don’t get the chance to bring it up, because just then, across the living room, I finally spot Logan.
The sight of him is a punch straight to my stomach. He’s wearing dark jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt pushed up to his elbows. He’s shaven his jaw so it’s smooth and sharp. His hair looks divine, the short strands almost curly. He’s so dark and moody you want to think he’d be a real arsehole, but I know the truth. I know he’s put out that bowl of crisps for me. I know how sweet he is underneath all those layers of muscle.
The only problem is I can’t quite get to him. There are half a dozen women around him, stuck to him like macaroni on a child’s art piece. They’re glued in place so that if he shifts an inch to the left, so do they.
If I want to talk to him, I’ll have to join the queue.
Chapter Six
Logan
I’m going to kill Darius. No, not just kill him—I’ll be sure to torture him first. Slowly. This party was his idea. C’mon, you need to celebrate your achievements! You’re at the top of your game!
I relented because I didn’t want to be a stick in the mud, but I told him, firmly, that I only wanted ten people here.
He countered with fifty.
I told him twenty-five max.
He didn’t argue after that and I assumed I’d gotten my way, but now I see that’s only because the asshole wasn’t listening to me anyway. He planned on doing it his way the entire time.
To say I’m uncomfortable with this many people in my apartment is an understatement. I keep glancing over to make sure no one is sneaking off down the hall toward my bedroom. In my life, practically nothing is sacred. The press knows every detail about every person, place, or thing in my world, sometimes before I do. This apartment has always been my sanctuary.
At least it was before tonight.
“I can’t believe how nice your apartment is. Did you design it yourself?”
The question is asked by a pretty girl with a pretty face wearing a pretty dress. She told me her name when her friends cornered me a few minutes ago, but how am I supposed to remember it when there’s a baker’s dozen of them all talking at once?