Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
I brace myself at the impact. My head hits my forearms, as I anticipated, and I breathe out, a jolt of adrenaline rushing through me. Someone screams from the sidewalk, but I ignore them as I get out of my car, open the passenger door, and grab the box. I must look like a fucking mess after traveling all day and then coming straight here, but I don’t care.
There’s damage to my car, but I’m certain it’ll still get me home. A police officer gapes as he rushes out of the precinct doors. “It was an accident,” I say sweetly as I carry the box inside and straight to the reception desk.
The woman at the desk is gawking with her mouth open. She looks at me and then at a side door, which I expect Braxton to come out of at any moment.
“I’d like to see Braxton Hero. I’m under the firm impression he’s working today since I accidentally just rammed my Ferrari into his car. I have a gift for him.”
“And an apology?” the woman asks, flabbergasted.
My eyebrows furrow. “No. The box contains statues.”
Suddenly, I’m wondering if he works with a bunch of morons because she doesn’t seem to be moving.
An officer slowly approaches me. “Ma’am, you’ve just damaged a police—”
“Leave her.” Braxton’s voice carries over the room as he appears from somewhere deeper in the precinct, and I smile like it’s the happiest moment of my life to see him. “I’ll handle this.”
The officer seems unconvinced and points to Braxton’s car. Braxton looks out the glass doors and his jaw tics.
“Too short for the brake pedal, Shortcake?” he growls.
“No, my heel slipped,” I say innocently as I glance over his shoulder and into the area he came from. The same one he took me into months ago.
People are cuffed to chairs as they sit there and wait their turn, and officers walk around talking, eating, or drinking coffee.
He makes a point to bring his hand near his waist, drawing attention to the gun in his holster. He’s wearing all black, and the badge I came all over only a week ago hangs around his neck. I feel rather smug with a twisted idea of how it might look as a noose instead. His sleeves are rolled up to showcase the tattoos on his arm, and I can’t help but smile as those blue eyes darken with anger.
Oooh, I really got to him this time. Good.
He takes a few steps and reaches for me. People are watching us, but I don’t really care. I make a pointed look down to the box in my hands, and when he follows my gaze, it’s like he hadn’t noticed it before.
“What are you doing?” he hisses.
“I think your package got lost in the mail and somehow ended up at my house,” I inform him. “While I appreciate the compliment that you thought I was the one to create them, they’re not mine to take, so please take possession of your belongings.” His gaze flicks to the box and back to me and then back to the box again like he can’t believe what I’m doing. What did he expect to happen when he sent this to me? Did he really think I’d just accept it?
He then looks back at his car. That’s just a fucking bonus. Asshole.
“You’re still denying you made them?” he asks in disbelief.
“I can’t possibly be the only gifted person you know.” I lean in. “Also, please tell me you understand there’s a difference between what I do and what’s in this box because it’s not the same.”
“You are the most gifted person I know.” I’m taken aback by his words. I didn’t actually expect him to admit that. He looks back down to the box again, avoiding my gaze, and I wonder if he’s realizing too late what he said. “If they aren’t yours, then throw them away. I have no need for this trash,” he says.
Trash?
Fucking trash?
He thinks my work is trash?
I mask my imploding thoughts, too stunned to reply, which he takes advantage of and continues. “I’ll be in touch about the insurance for the car. Have a good day, Shortcake. Don’t want to be late for your event this evening.” Then he turns back toward the bullpen. I stare after him. For the first time in my life I’m actually shocked into silence. I don’t know what to do or say.
What the fuck is this asshole playing at?
My nails curl into the box, and I hold my head high as the receptionist watches me anxiously.
Piece of shit. Asshole. Dickhead.
Wait to see what’s coming to you. You fucking deserve every slow torture in the world.
I fume on the inside as I leave with the box. I’m not so furious and stupid as to leave it in the center of a police station. Even though I was here to hand it to a fucking detective. I don’t know what the fuck I’m thinking lately, but it’s certainly nothing sane.