Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
How men like him deliver daggers so politely.
Dig into my soul with a well-meaning smile.
Carve me up and deliver me on a plate.
“Y-You’re right,” I state, choked. “Thank you.”
And now I’m thanking him.
I’m thanking the bastard.
He smiles back. “Now how about let’s discuss next weekend’s order before you go? Saves me a trip to Spruce, and it’s about lunch time, so I can treat you to some quality office catering—on the house, of course—as a courtesy to express to you how much I value our relationship.”
I swallow my pride and shake his hand.
I’m swallowing my pride for the whole next hour.
And when it’s all over with, I cannot get out of that building fast enough. After loading the empty boxes back into my car, I’m setting the freeway behind me on fire as I drive off.
The radio isn’t blasting sweet love songs anymore.
It’s off the rails.
And so am I.
Until I’m stopped at a red light just off the freeway, waiting to go. I’m gripping the wheel tight and fighting off tears. I don’t even know what’s got me more hot: that I got told off in the most polite and condescending way by Mr. Bellamy, or that I had the nerve to talk back to him. Why did I talk back to him? I know the contract we signed. I agreed to it, despite everything else.
Then Diego’s voice came to me. His eyes that seemed to growl on their own. His constant, unasked-for fighting on my behalf.
How he stood up to Mr. Bellamy in my own shop.
Is he the reason I talked back today?
Is he to blame?
This spiteful-ass red light sure is taking forever waiting on absolutely no one. I’m the only car at this stupid intersection.
I may be the best client your business ever sees …
I gun it through the red light anyway, tired of waiting.
My inner thoughts shut up.
—22—
Diego
Wyatt pulls up to the curb. Pops his trunk. Grabs a couple of empty boxes. Slams the trunk shut with an elbow. Fumbles at the door. Can’t manage to get it open. Drops a box. Scowls.
I come to the door and open it for him.
He’s crouched by the fallen box, then looks up, stopping at the sight of me. “What’re you doing here?”
I lean against the door and cross my arms. “What’re you not doing here?”
“I was out doing a delivery,” he says with a defensive bite in his voice. When he finally gets the box into his grasp, another one drops. He lets out an annoyed sigh.
I pick it up for him, then gesture inside. He rolls his eyes and walks past me into the store. I follow him in.
He stops by the counter and asks the moody teenager there, “You okay? I’m so sorry I’m late. Your mother’s probably so mad.”
The teenager looks at me. “He wouldn’t leave.”
“Why would I?” I grunt back.
“I told you Mr. C went to do a delivery.”
“Still doesn’t explain who you are.”
“Dude, who the hell are you?”
Wyatt snatches the empty box from me with a sigh. “Nice to see you guys became best friends while I was gone.” He takes it to the back with the others, then says, “Cash, thank you so much for holding down the fort. I’ll pay you for the day, promise.”
“It’s okay, Mr. C,” he says, still eyeing me. “I’ll be coming back tomorrow. Y’know. ‘Cause I work here.”
I scrunch up my face. “Why the hell didn’t you just say so?”
“Because you’re fun to dick with,” the kid answers. Before I can say something back, he slings his backpack over his shoulder and says, “I can stay longer, Mr. C, if you need me to.”
“He’s safe with me,” I growl back, annoyed at the implication in his eyes.
Wyatt holds back a snort and says, “Think I can manage, Cash. Please give Stella my regards.”
The dude stares me down the whole way out of the store.
I stare him down right back.
When he’s gone, I turn to Wyatt. “The whole time I was here, being dodgy as fuck, wouldn’t say who he was or where you were or—” I bring my voice down. “What kind of a delivery takes the whole damned afternoon? Was your client in Hong Kong?”
“What’s this?” he asks, pointing at a container in the fridge.
I come up to the counter. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting here for you?”
“I do not.”
“I’ll let you guess. Hint: over an hour at least.”
His eyes tighten. “Am I supposed to thank you?”
“It’d be a start. And that’s lunch,” I answer him. “Though may as well be dinner by now.”
He pulls the container out of the fridge. A salad. It sits next to a cup of green tea dripping in sweat, ice melted, napkin wrapped around it soaked through. He looks at me. “You got me lunch?”
“Yeah. So?”