Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 208(@200wpm)___ 167(@250wpm)___ 139(@300wpm)
Kit immediately realized what was happening. He straightened and uncrossed his arms. “Robbie. Take a breath.”
I shook my head violently, hoping to communicate that me and breathing weren’t a thing anymore.
“Rob,” he snapped, startling me. “Stop your thoughts right now and focus here.” His finger went to the tip of his nose before he pressed the same finger to the bridge of my nose and dragged it slowly down.
The moves were hypnotic. Drugging, almost. I had a vague memory of him doing this once before, a long time ago. Maybe when my mom died? I couldn’t remember exactly.
I tried focusing on the tip of his nose, but my vision got spotty around the edges.
Kit’s big hands grasped my upper arms as he shook me. “Magpie, I need you to breathe. Take a slow breath for me. Try to take it in as slowly as possible.”
He moved a hand up to the side of my face, and I pressed into it, wanting this exact moment to be the last thing I remembered if I wasn’t going to get another breath.
Suddenly, air flew into my lungs in a big, embarrassing gasp. And then I burst into tears.
Later, I remembered wet spots from my tears on the white cotton of his shirt, the feel of his strong arms around me, the sound of his urgent reassurance that I was okay, and his admonishment to never scare him like that again because he couldn’t bear to lose me.
I remembered the feel of his lips pressing kiss after kiss along my forehead and cheeks, the murmured sound of him calling me baby.
And then I didn’t remember anything at all.
When I woke up in the morning, I found myself stripped down to my boxer briefs in the center of his giant bed. On the nightstand were my phone, water, ibuprofen, and a tiny turquoise bird with its wings unfurled.
But I was completely alone. Kittredge Evers was gone.
1
KIT - TEN YEARS LATER
“Do I need to repeat myself?” I asked my assistant without looking up from our daytime broadcast division’s quarterly P&L report.
“No, Your Highness. I only need to clarify that you’re willing to pay any amount with no limit? The attorneys are, of course, willing to negotiate the best deal; they simply need to know what your cap is.”
“No cap.”
“Mort asked why you wanted this particular building when you don’t usually invest in residential real estate, with the exception of your own residences.”
I finally looked up at Rajiv, who was sharply dressed as usual in a vintage suit, his dark-framed glasses adding to the retro look, despite not needing them to actually see.
“Does he need to know the reason in order to complete the purchase?” I asked, even though we both—and my nosy attorney—knew the answer.
The edge of Rajiv’s lips turned up. “Of course not. I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to give him a bullshit response or a nonresponse.”
Rajiv was the only person who knew the real reason. That I was sick and tired of worrying about the shoddy security in Robbie’s building, not to mention the fact that one of the tenants was running drugs on his floor.
“Tell him I have a kernel of an idea, but I’m not ready to talk about it yet. He’ll forget about it by next week. In the meantime, I need you to line up a security firm to manage the building. Get in touch with On Your Six. If you can’t find their number, call Derek Wolfe. He’s in my contacts. I want them vetting a proper doorman who has a security background instead of some kid who’s gonna doze off and buzz in any asshole who comes to the door.”
He nodded and pulled up his tablet.
“And once the building is ours, I want the tenant in 3E out.”
He nodded again, tapping notes onto the screen. When he was done, he met my eyes. I could tell by the look in them he had opinions I didn’t want to hear.
“Save it,” I said, retaining my calm to keep from sounding defensive.
“I’m unsure why Robert Warren Sr. isn’t the one worrying about Robbie’s safety—”
“Pretty sure you know exactly why. Robert is Robert. Leave it at that.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, before turning to leave and closing my office door behind him.
I pushed back from my desk and leaned over to stretch my back. The truth was, Robert Warren Sr. was a selfish son of a bitch who hardly ever spared a thought for his precious son. If it hadn’t been for sweet Robbie and his angel of a mother, I probably would have severed my friendship with Robert years ago.
But Roxana Warren, the Peruvian swimwear model Robert had met on location at a photo shoot over thirty years ago, had made me promise to stay close, to keep an eye on her beloved only child, since he needed a better man to look up to than his own father.