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)
If I pursue her, I have to drop Percy as a client and tell him that he doesn’t stand a chance with her. The issue is that I don’t know if I stand a chance with her either.
I want a chance, though, but what exactly do I want a chance at?
To kiss her?
To fuck her?
To build a relationship with her?
Since I’ve never felt the urge to be in a romantic relationship with any woman, it’s easy to strike the last option off my list.
My phone chimes in my pocket. It’s been doing that non-stop all night. I ignored it when I was with Opal, glanced at it briefly on the subway ride to this bar, and since I ordered my first drink, I’ve kept it out of sight.
Another text notification immediately follows the last one, so I pull the phone out to find a message from Percy.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
The last thing I want is to deal with him tonight.
I read the most recent text message he just sent, and two others from him that arrived since I left Turquoise Crown.
The first two are awkward attempts to start a conversation. One asks how I am, and the other comments on the almost ideal weather New Yorkers enjoyed today.
The third is the one I need to respond to.
Percy: I want an update on Opal. I’m ready to make my move.
“Go to hell,” I whisper, staring at my phone’s screen.
“I haven’t even sat down yet,” a very familiar voice says from next to me. “I thought you said you’d always be happy to see me, regardless of the place or time.”
“Scout.” I stand to take my sister in my arms as soon as I realize it’s her. “I am always happy to see you.”
After a brief embrace, she pushes both hands against my chest to gain enough distance to look up to study my face. “So, you weren’t telling me to go to hell?”
I laugh at the mere thought of that. “Fuck, no.”
Her gaze darts back over her shoulder to a table where two other women are sitting. Both are around her age, although I’m no expert on picking twenty-four-year-olds out in a crowd.
“Are those your friends?” I question.
“Why?” She eyes me suspiciously. “Don’t make a move on either, William. I work with them, and I don’t want you messing that up for me by breaking one of their hearts.”
I take that all in. “There’s zero chance of that happening. I’m not going to make a move on anyone tonight.”
She laughs as though I’m joking.
Not feeling the need to explain myself further, I dive into her life. “How’s the new job going? Is the promotion working out?”
Scout recently returned to Manhattan after spending just over a year in London working for an auction house there. Once a position opened up on this side of the Atlantic, she threw her name in the ring and was offered the job almost immediately. It came with more responsibility, a bigger salary, and, most importantly, a chance to move back home.
“I love it.” She bounces in place, sending the ends of her curly brown hair flying over her shoulders. The black leather jacket she’s wearing was a birthday gift from our parents almost a decade ago. The red jeans she has on are a favorite of hers. She tripped on a sidewalk grate one morning when she was in high school. The fall ripped the denim over both of her knees. She cried about them for a day and a half until I had a brand new pair of the discontinued jeans waiting for her at our parents’ home when she got home from school. It secured my place as her favorite brother until Bauer gave her a charcoal drawing of her in her graduation cap and gown. That gift brought tears to her eyes.
“We should meet up for dinner soon,” I say. “You pick the place.”
“You’re going to drag yourself away from whatever it is you do all day and most nights to eat a meal with me?”
“I help men become the best they can be,” I repeat the line I almost always use around her and Bauer.
She purses her lips together. “A few in here desperately need your help because they are the worst they can be.”
I’ve always been overly protective of my sister, so I glance behind her. “If someone is being an asshole to you, point them out.”
“So you can do what?” She half-smiles.
Drive my first into their nose is the answer I’m contemplating, but violence rarely solves anything.
“I know,” she readies to answer her own question. “You’d explain why being a jerk is not the way to get into a woman’s pants.”
To add to that, she tugs on the waistband of her jeans.
I close my eyes. “Don’t mention getting into pants and men in the same breath around me.”