Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69018 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
His face slowly morphs into a frown. “That’s not why I did it.”
“I know. I didn’t mean to imply that you had creepy ulterior motives.”
“You did once ask me if this was going to turn weird, like a hostage situation where I keep you as a prisoner in my house like a madman and force you to sleep in my bed and wear only my clothes and get completely obsessed like a bad token dark romance novel.”
“They’re so popular right now.” They’re not my thing, but if you read enough, they’re going to crop up. Personally, I’m a romcom girl myself. I like it when everything goes repeatedly wrong, but somehow, it all turns itself around. It’s funny in books, even if it’s a bitch in real life. Being able to laugh at the hard stuff in life is the most vital and important way to get through it. “I—I was thinking about going and leaving you in peace. You don’t need to drop my phone off. You can just mail it. I’m now familiar with enough of your staff that I know who to contact if I need any changes made. I know who to call.”
“Leave?” A fraction of that stoic façade breaks down. He seems confused and slightly alarmed. Like he did when he walked into the lobby earlier today and saw a heck of a lot of his staff gathered there. I thought we were all in for it, but he seemed mystified, not angry.
“Yes, go. It seems like a natural end. You’ve helped me, you’ve helped the animals, and I have no doubt you’ll figure out a way to make your workplace the best it can be now that you know what it’s like to see your staff laugh and smile. It’s infectious and good for morale. You’ll want to keep it up.”
The frown deepens. He grinds his teeth so hard that I hear them squeak. But there’s that shadow in his eyes again. Not anger. Confusion. “You think I’m an ogre?”
“No. No one does. But that’s not the issue.”
“You’re leaving?” he asks again, with real effort behind the tonelessness.
“There’s nothing left for me to do here. Unless you’d like me to do something for you. Or for your business. I can put out whatever glowing reviews you need and talk to whoever is on the other end of that—”
“There’s nothing,” he growls, swiping his hand through his short hair. “Nothing like that.”
I twist my hands in front of me. My fingers are so freaking sweaty. A shiver starts at the nape of my neck and slips down my spine when I think about tracing that same path, but much more gently and comforting. Getting close.
That’s absurd. I have no right to be thinking those things. I have no right to feel even a slight amount of heat in my body or a building tenderness in my stomach. Thorn doesn’t need my help. He’s rich, and rich people can pay anyone to fix their problems. He referenced a therapist before. If he has personal stuff going on, he can pay someone who knows their stuff to help him heal.
He doesn’t need protecting, and he doesn’t need saving. He’s the head of a security service, and I’m sure it’s not a front business for darker stuff under the surface, no matter how many times I’ve referenced that. His job is protection, and he’s got that down. As for saving? I can’t even save myself. Picking myself up and forcing myself to move forward, realizing that crying and grieving might be therapeutic, but that life still goes on and I still need shelter and food, isn’t exactly saving. It’s surviving, not thriving.
Thorn is the one who is thriving. And I need to let him get back to doing that.
“Well then, in the morning. If that’s alright?”
He gets my meaning perfectly. He’s already standing utterly straight, but his shoulders align, and his back straightens further. His eyes take on that same deadness, and his face empties out. “I can have the driver here to take you to the jet whenever you’re ready.”
All I can do is thank him again. I have nothing to offer him that he doesn’t already have and doesn’t already know. I just hope this all works out. For both of us. It seems well on the road to being that way already.
His eyes shift to Peach Lips and I swear I see a flash of something soft and a little bit sad, but he quickly gets his menacing security guard frowny face in place. “I just wanted to come and check that you were comfortable. In the house. That there wasn’t anything you needed.”
That feels like a gut punch, though I can’t truly say why. We’re the two least-suited individuals in the world. What did I expect? That we’d share a moment? This is a professional relationship and nothing more. Even the witty banter and sparring is gone now. He’s always going to know the facts of my life and nothing deeper, and I’m going to know nothing—facts or deeper—about him.