Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
I close the door behind me and pad down the hall to the main living area to have a look around in the daylight. The sun hasn’t risen above the buildings, so the place is still cast in shadow, but it is no less impressive.
Pulling the drawstring as tight as it will go at the waistband, I knot it and hope it keeps the shorts from falling. That would be embarrassing. I get my purse out from behind the large plant pot in the corner. Hiding it seemed like a good idea last night. I didn’t want him rummaging through it for evidence that I’m not who I say I am.
Strangely, in the light of a new day and looking back, I’m not so sure he would have cared. He’s wily but still not operating at one hundred percent.
Today might be a different story.
I would never wish harm on someone, but if he could keep that memory loss front and center for a while, I wouldn’t be upset. I slide onto a barstool and pull out my phone. Seeing the time makes me feel less rushed. It’s not even seven, though I’d bet money that Warner probably typically gets up before the sun and works out or something. He’s got the body to show for it.
Hard abs.
Defined biceps.
The man has the perfect balance of athleticism—not overly bulky, yet he can hold his own. Those shoulders made me want to cling to him like a monkey to see, but I have no doubt he could hold me if he wanted to. Why he’d want to is a whole other issue.
This con would be easier if he were less . . . less at everything. Looks, finances, apartments. Not easier to take advantage of, but I wouldn’t get so distracted around him. I would sound less like a bumbling fool every time I open my mouth. He would get the real, confident, and independent version of me.
Looking down at my phone again, I realize that with less than 5 percent battery, I won’t get far in this city, so I unplug his new phone to charge mine for a few minutes. I turn to look out the window, assuming I won’t have a lot of time before he wakes up. What happens next?
I need clothes. I need my toiletries. And makeup. I need to see my family. Turning back to the kitchen, I make note of things I need to get. After scrounging through the fridge and cabinets, pancakes were all I could think to make. The fridge looks new, given how few things are in it. There’s no old cheese or rotting vegetables in the drawers. There’s no cheese or vegetables at all. Talk about bare bones living. I’m not sure how he survives off probiotic active yogurt, bottles of Evian water, and French butter, so I’m certain he must have restaurants programmed on his speed dial.
His phone . . . Shoot. That will be an issue. One call will ruin it all.
I take it, tucking it into my purse because if I’ve gone this far, I might as well leave more destruction in my wake. Then I snatch the cord out of mine. I need to make a good and big impression, and I know just how. I have to get a move on, though. I slip on my shoes and head for the door.
The elevator comes quickly at this hour and spits me out into the lobby just as a lady and her dog stroll on as I exit. She stares at me, with no smile in sight. When her face pinches, I worry she’s swallowed something sour until I realize it’s me who’s left a bad taste in her mouth. Wow. Tough crowd. “I know I look odd, but I’m doing the best I can here, so cut me some slack, lady.”
She snoots and tosses her nose in the air after picking up her poofy little dog like I threatened its life. I didn’t, for the record. When the elevator closes, I glance down at the baggy basketball shorts I've knotted at the waist, which are barely clinging to my hips, his tee, and my flats. Wiggling my toes, I choke down the mortification and head toward the exit.
Seeing the doorman ahead, I realize that people in Warner’s life, even the folks who are only acquaintances, will know that I’m not his wife. What would it take to make him play along?
I’m too broke to give a reasonable bribe like I’ve seen in the movies. So he’s stuck with my awful effort at charm. “Hello,” I say, resting my arms on the top of the high counter. “I’m Delaney.”
“Good morning, miss. My residents call me Baker. How may I help you?” His smile is kind, and his thick accent is from one of the boroughs. I already like him.