Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 32532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 163(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32532 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 163(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Right?
“Anyway—” I struggle to keep my smile in place because the last thing I want is for this guy to realize how much he’s hurt me without even trying. “I just wanted you to know I’m very, very grateful to all your help—”
“I was only duing my duty.”
Ouch.
I’m ugly, so he sees me as a duty.
This guy truly has a way with words.
My rescuer crosses his arms, and I just hate how it makes me look at his perfectly sculpted biceps despite everything.
“You’ve been acting oddly for some time now.”
“I’ve just been thinking hard of how I want to move forward with life without you—”
He stills.
“I mean, without having to bother you.”
“I didn’t realize your stay here has been so unpleasant.”
Color bursts in my cheeks. “You misunderstand. I didn’t mean...I’m grateful, okay? I can never thank you enough for saving me, but I’m just not used to depending on anyone, and...and I don’t think it’s fair that I keep troubling you like this. So I’m really hoping this email will change everything.”
He glances back at the laptop. “You used your real name when querying. Does this mean—”
“I’ll use a pseudonym if I do get published. One of my favorite authors openly acknowledges using one, and no one knows who he is. Or if he’s really a he or a she.”
“And where do you intend to live?”
As far away from you as possible.
“Somewhere really far?”
A pause.
And then he says coolly, “Give me a day, and then we can talk about options.”
“Great.”
“Great.”
How weird. That same word we just uttered is supposed to mean something wonderful, so why did we both sound like we’re talking about our own obituaries?
Silence erupts between us, and I find myself stupidly taking notice of how the afternoon light slanting through the window has caught the gold in his hair, and—
Stop it, Mira!
I clench my fists against my sides, terrified that I’d suddenly find myself reaching up to touch his hair.
“Have you thought of what pseudonym you’d use?”
The question catches me off guard. “I...”
“It has to be something that won’t draw attention.”
“I was thinking of using Ariana Taylor,’ I say at the same time.
Silence.
But this time, the kind that makes me feel rather defensive.
“It’s not that bad!”
“Why not add Rihanna while you’re at it?”
“Well, if I’m allowed to also add a middle name, I would love to—” I belatedly notice his gaze boring into mine, and oh.
He was being sarcastic.
“Ariana Taylor will do,” I say weakly.
A muscle twitches at the corner of his mouth. Is that...is that almost a smile? No. Impossible. The man’s face is carved from glacier ice. He doesn’t smile.
“Anything else you want to add?” he asks.
“Deceased parents, only child?”
“Too much like your real life. We’ll give you a fake sibling. Do you have any preferences?”
“I’ve always wanted a big brother, and...oh!”
“What is it?”
“I think I know where I’d like to be relocated.”
“Go on.”
“Would Chicago be possible?”
“That depends on your reason for choosing it.”
Do I tell him it’s because I love Michael Jordan, and I’ll always see him as one of the Bulls, never the Wizards?
That I used to fall asleep watching old championship games on YouTube, dreaming of a city I’d never seen?
That the idea of snow feels romantic to someone who grew up in endless California sunshine?
“It can’t be something your cousin can also figure out, if she were of the mind to look for you.”
That totally makes sense, but now I have no idea if Chicago is a safe place to choose. Trina can be weirdly observant at times, and I have no idea if she’s aware of me being a diehard MJ fan?
“Sleep on it,” my rescuer advises quietly. “Take your time thinking this through—” The sound of his phone buzzing cuts him off, and his expression noticeably turns grim at whatever he’s reading.
And when he looks my way, my heart just drops.
“What is it?” I whisper.
Are bad guys after me again? Is this going to be like the Taken franchise, and—
“Your cousin has been murdered.”
Chapter Seven
IT WAS HIS FIRST TIME attending a funeral without being the killer.
Or wishing he was the killer.
The thought should have disturbed him. Instead, Zacharie found it almost amusing in a grim sort of way, standing in the back of a funeral parlor in Glendale while mourners filed past a closed casket draped in white lilies.
Trina de los Reyes had been twenty-six years old. Pretty, if the photographs displayed on easels were accurate. Smiling in every single one, her arm slung around Mira’s shoulders, their faces pressed together like sisters rather than cousins.
Like family.
Like someone who hadn’t sold her own blood to human traffickers for what his sources confirmed was a mere fifty thousand dollars.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
The mourners lined up to extend their condolences to Mira, but all eyes were on him.
He was used to this. The weight of strangers’ gazes, the ripple of recognition that followed him through any room in Southern California. One of their homegrown billionaires, the society pages liked to call him. Self-made. Mysterious. Perpetually single despite the endless parade of women who threw themselves at his feet.