Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
No one had the heart at the time to tell her that her daughter’s last known whereabouts were at a cargo shipping container dock seventeen hundred miles away from her university.
I still regret not having stood up for Macy that day. Being a rookie shouldn’t have made a difference. The error I made that day is the reason I was insistent on Macy’s participation in this fundraiser. Supporting her with this will shed light on her sister’s disappearance while also ensuring she doesn’t face the brunt of her parents’ wrath alone. This is the first gala they’re holding at their family estate. She has no means of escaping them here like she would if it were at a five-star hotel.
“We should probably get ready,” I say, needing to move forward with both our investigation and my guilt. I’ve not put a single hour into Cameron’s case in almost two full days. That was incomprehensible only days ago.
With a determined nod, Macy exposes one of the benefits of having a fuck ton of money. This suite doesn’t have one bathroom. It has two.
We use the his-and-her bathrooms to shower and get dressed. Macy slips into a stunning evening gown that caresses her baby bump while also hiding it, whereas I put on a tuxedo. I feel a little like James Bond when I adjust my holster to conceal my gun under the tailored crease of my designer jacket.
As I fiddle with my bow tie in the vanity mirror, anticipation builds. This gala is important. We need to be at our best. But it also feels different, like there’s more at play tonight than I’m anticipating.
When Macy props her shoulder against the doorjamb separating the bathrooms, I lose the chance to figure out why I feel the way I do. Lines have marked her forehead, and she has crinkled her nose. I learn the cause of her fretful look when she returns to the conversation we held last night. “What you said about the oils, was that true?”
I’m lost as to what she is referencing until a red hue creeps up her neck. Macy only blushes when sexually aroused or embarrassed to admit she doesn’t know something.
This time, it is the latter. Regrettably.
“Yeah… ah…” Who the fuck is this dweeb struggling to talk? I’ve never lacked confidence.
After a stern talking to myself, I say, “Yes. They have oils that can assist your”—I cough—“in preparation to give birth.” I twist back to face the mirror, pretending my bow tie still isn’t sitting right. It is perfectly straight. I just need a few seconds to remove the image of a colleague doing a move I’ll never not construe as deviant from my head. “There’s a detailed write-up in the book I purchased for you. If you can’t find the chapter, I can ask Alex which one it’s in.”
Macy joins me in the bathroom, doubling the heat on my cheeks. Her hair, washed and brushed out, swings effortlessly against her bare shoulders when she stands so close that I can smell the scent of her toothpaste. “Alex has read What to Expect When You’re Expecting?”
“Every page.” My laugh bellows through a bathroom bigger than my first apartment. “And he likes to share any knowledge he unearths. How do you think I know so much about pregnancy and birth in this day and age?” She knows how much my brother and I doted on our mother when she was pregnant with Darcy, but she is clueless about Alex’s gradual transition into fatherhood.
I turn to face her when she remains quiet. A weird look mars her pretty features. I could be wrong, but I believe it is the cruelty of jealousy.
Upon noticing that I’ve spotted her puzzled expression, Macy pffts before pushing off her feet to enter the central part of our room. “I figured you had a handful of baby mommies begging for a slice of your minimum wage.”
I laugh before shaking my head. She’s not wrong about the pittance we get paid for putting our lives on the line every day, especially after coming from a wealth like her parents clearly have, but I also find it amusing considering she dipped out on any chance of child support by using an anonymous sperm donor.
“Shut up, Malfoy,” Macy whispers, well-versed on my stirring expressions, before she bends down to collect her stilettos from her suitcase.
When she groans, I race to her side like she’s in labor. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing.” When I growl in a silent reminder of the promise she made only this morning to be honest, air whizzes from her nose. “It’s difficult to put on shoes when you have a watermelon strapped to your stomach.”
When I chuckle, she shoots me a riled look.
If death stares could kill, I’d be a dead man.
“If you think it’s so easy”—her eyes bounce around the room before landing on the overnight bag I packed in a hurry—“put your shoes on while wearing that strapped to your midsection.”