Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97199 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97199 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Frankly, the little kid who just breezed past me on his way into the hotel, holding tightly to a woman’s hand, is more of a grown-up than the man tossing a bunch of brochures in the air at the reception desk.
“I said I want her room number!” the brochure-tossing guy yells. “Give it to me now.”
“That’s against our policy, sir,” the man behind the reception desk explains. “I told you I’m willing to call her room and ask if she’d like to speak with you.”
“She won’t!” The fool, losing his cool, throws another brochure in the air.
“I don’t blame her,” the little kid jumps into the fray. “You’re loud.” He looks up into the face of the woman he’s with. “He’s loud, Mommy. Why is he so loud?”
Still holding tightly to his hand, his mom shushes him. Thank Christ the jerk doesn’t turn around to direct his frustration at the kid. I suspect that may happen if someone doesn’t step in to lower the temperature in here, so I do just that.
“Hey, you!” I call out to the guy, who is now spinning in a circle as if he’s trying to decide his next move.
“Me?” He pats the center of his chest. “Are you talking to me?”
I stalk toward him. “Of course I am. You’re making a scene. You need to shut the …” I glance to where the child is taking all of this in, and rethink what I need to say, “I’d appreciate it a lot if you could use your inside voice.”
The little kid nods. “Me too.”
“My inside voice?” The loudmouthed asshole takes a step closer to me. “What the fuck does that mean?”
The child gasps. I do, too, for good measure because I don’t want the little tyke to feel alone in his shock.
“Swear words are bad words,” I say with a frown. “Apologize for using that word.”
“You can go straight to hell.”
The kid gasps again, but his hands shoot up to cover his little ears this time. It’s not enough of a buffer to silence what I really want to say to the swear-loving bastard, so I motion for him to come even closer to me.
He tugs on the front of his sweatshirt before he raises his fists like he’s ready to drive one into my jaw. I don’t back down because I’ll have his arms behind his back before any part of him touches any part of me.
“Knock it off,” I whisper when he’s close enough to hear me. “Whoever you’re hoping to talk to is going to hear about this, and I promise you, she’ll want less to do with you than she already does.”
“Gloria?” he spits out the name of the woman who has apparently taken harbor in this hotel. “You think she’ll hear about this?”
“I’ll make sure she does,” I threaten.
“You won’t tell her,” he says it like it’s more of a wish than a statement. “Please don’t tell her.”
Seeing as how I don’t know who the hell Gloria is, and I have no interest in changing that, I step closer to him because the little kid’s big blue eyes are stuck on the two of us as this plays out a few feet from him. “You need to get yourself together before you see Gloria. That sweatshirt has a hole in it. Your jeans are dirty, and your shoes belong in a trashcan.”
He nods like he already knows this. “Gloria told me I’d never get a job if I don’t dress the part.”
“Gloria’s right.”
“She said she’d come home once I get my act together.” He drags a hand through his brown hair. “I need to do that.”
“Start now.” I pat the guy’s shoulder. “But first, clean up your mess, and I’m not just talking about the brochures.”
He glances to the left and the scattered papers on the floor. “Shit.”
“Language,” I warn with a wag of my finger in his direction. “There’s a child right there.”
The little boy holds up his hand. “That’s me. Words like that are bad. Santa won’t bring you anything if you talk like that.”
“You hear that.” I look at the face of the guy who loves Gloria. “Apologize to that lad and his mother for what you said.”
“I’m sorry.”
I give him a look. “Do better than that.”
He drops to one knee, so he’s almost level with the kid’s height. “I’m very sorry I yelled and said those words. That is never okay.”
The little boy tugs free of his mom’s hand to walk toward the guy on his knee. He rests a small hand on his shoulder. “Mommy tells me I need to count to ten when I feel mad. I do it. You should, too.”
“I will.” He smiles. “I’ll count to ten next time.”
The elevator dings, signaling an arrival from one of the upper floors, so I turn to look. I spot a man with graying hair in a good suit. I can only assume that’s Rupert based on the description he gave me over the phone this morning. His tight schedule left no time for research before this meeting, but Lola is handling that now. Her initial report should hit my email inbox any second.