Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80303 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Her pound puppy expression drove into my psyche like a hammer did a rusty nail. I loved her, I did, but this wasn’t something that could be ignored or laughed off.
“Goddammit, Audrey.”
She flinched as if I’d struck her and bit down on her lower lip. I tore my gaze away from hers and homed in on the white marble countertop.
“Can we talk later, please?” she asked quietly.
“So, you can spend the day thinking of ways to explain your colossal fuck up?”
“Rhia.”
She sounded pitiful. Why the hell was she playing the role I should’ve been? I took a quick breath to calm myself. I couldn’t do this with her right now. I wasn’t going to be able to sit here and have a level-headed discussion.
“You’re right, later is better,” I stated dismissively.
She nodded and picked up her fork to pick at her plate of food some more. The chef continued what he was doing, respectfully minding his business.
When he turned around again it was to present me with the best-looking omelet I’d ever seen. He slid it in front of me along with a fancy linen napkin and silverware.
“One bite of this and you’ll never think cereal is a reasonable request again.”
“I’m starting to think you have a personal vendetta against it.”
“Miss ma’am, that’s nothing but sugar cocaine. You don’t need to be ingesting that nastiness.” He shook his head in a show of dramatized disgust. “Mr. Barron agrees.”
Mr. Barron?
Wow. Wasn’t Judas all grown up?
I had half a mind to question how this man knew I loved omelets stuffed with cheese and peppers, but the answer was obvious, and I was starving. Plus, this looked too good to waste and was providing a much-needed distraction. Something to focus on other than hurt and rage and loss.
I grabbed my fork and cut into a corner of a perfect, golden fluffy fold. Beneath the chef’s watchful stare, I stuffed the bite into my mouth, and immediately a savory flavor with a hint of spiciness seduced my taste buds. I glanced up and couldn’t help but laugh a little at his knowing grin.
“Thank you. This is delicious.”
“Thanking me isn’t necessary it’s my honor to serve the lady of the house.”
Ugh. That was a quick way to spoil good food and kill any chance of lightening my mood.
“I’m not--.”
“Would you like OJ or water? Almond milk?” He moved away and walked towards a pair of glossy white double doors with brass handles that turned out to be the refrigerator. He pulled the right door open and grabbed a brand of orange juice I wasn’t familiar with.
“Mr. Barron had this imported for you.” He carried it over and gently sat the bottle beside my omelet along with a round glass. “I should have introduced myself first thing. My name’s, Makoa. You can call me Cookie.”
I wasn’t touching on the OJ topic. Calling this big man Cookie was ten times more interesting than Judas going out of his way for my dietary likes and needs. At least, I was going to pretend it was.
“I sense a story behind that.”
He smiled brightly. “I will share it with you another day. Eat. You have to leave soon.”
“Leave? Do you know where I’m going?”
“That is a surprise I wouldn’t dare to ruin.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“You’ll love this one.” He smiled again before turning away to begin cleaning up his mess.
My hunger fled as a heaviness settled in my stomach. If that was meant to reassure me, he failed epically.
I studied my reflection with a slight twist of my lips. Someone had taken the time to place a little black dress and box of shoes on the bed for me while I was downstairs.
It was classier than anything I’d worn recently. The long sleeves were nothing more than delicate scraps of lace attached to a bodycon silhouette with a V neck center and cutout back.
I turned from right to left and tugged at the solid black material to try and cover more of my chest than the dress wanted to allow. It immediately created another issue. Hitting just above my knees as tight as it was didn’t leave much fabric to spare.
Not getting anywhere, I sighed and finally gave up, twisting around so that I was facing the large mirror head-on. I’d gone through the motions of showering and then somewhat piecing myself together.
I had no desire to look runway-ready, but I also refused to walk around resembling something from a zombie apocalypse. Having firsthand experience with what that looked like, I knew it was not a pretty sight to behold.
When I had finally pulled myself out of the dark hole I’d been wallowing in a few years ago, I couldn’t help but cringe at what I saw.
It had taken me forever to get the tangles out of my long hair and about fifty showers to remove the feeling of grime from my skin. I made a promise to myself after that, to never get so low that I returned to such a fragile state of mind.