Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Unknown: dnt you know hvingg ur contact is part of discverry???
I blink at the screen and wrinkle my nose before I send, Miss Sullivan?
Marissa Sullivan: shoudl I feell aspeiclah
Marissa Sullivan: fujkv
Marissa Sullivan: sent before I finishined
Marissa Sullivan: should I feeel like a special gril since u remembereed my name ??
What in the hell is going on here?
Why is the woman who’s suing me texting like a drunken teenager?
I don’t have the time or patience to decipher her cryptic messages. I slam the call button on the text window and lift the phone to my ear.
It picks up before the first ring finishes.
Miss Sullivan’s voice slurs in my ear. “Ooh la la, you’re callin’ me now? You sure know how to woo a girl, Marshall.”
I stare incredulously at—nothing, really.
When I’d thought drunken teenager, I wasn’t expecting to be right.
“Miss Sullivan . . . are you drunk?”
“Issit your business?” She hiccups. “Whaddya want?”
“Nothing,” I retort. “You texted me first. I thought this might be more convenient than interpreting your inebriated texts, but it seems you can’t speak clearly either. Did you need something, or can it wait for the meeting with our lawyers present?”
An ugly little laugh comes over the line.
So different from Elle and her light laughter, it’s like air versus mud.
“I’m just being gracious. God! Listen, I’m gonna offer you the chance to . . . to consneed before thissss goes to ker—cut—court. If you concede, I won’t even shoe—sue for decades of damages. Asshole,” she adds under her breath.
I almost roll my eyes out of my head.
“Absolutely not. There’s nothing to concede, Miss Sullivan. Your frivolous lawsuit is a hostile takeover attempt, and I think you already know it won’t succeed. It won’t bleed my family’s company dry, either, no matter how long you care to drag this misery out. I’ll see you soon, though, and we can let our lawyers do the heavy lifting. Please be sober.”
I hang up before she gets out more than a “Fu—” as a retort.
Then I mute my phone.
Talking to that wacko is a special kind of hell.
I suddenly wish Elle were here. Her brightness could clear up the sulfur stench Marissa Sullivan always leaves in the air.
Rick is still watching me in the rearview mirror.
“Should I turn us around, sir?” It’s annoying how astute he is.
“No,” I snarl, knowing I’m more aggravated with myself than him. “I need to be in the office. Our legal team is waiting, and I intend to be fully ready to deal with Marissa Sullivan come tomorrow.”
Come tomorrow, I’m not ready to deal with jack shit.
Did the woman who tumbled into my arms at the airport have to be a morning bird?
I know. I know most of the world wakes up before lunch. I know I’m a human oddity.
Still, I can’t play the doting fiancé if I leave Elle to fend for herself on her first day in the office. Nor can I apologize to my aunt for dragging her into this fuss, though I hope she’ll at least like Elle and be willing to work with her.
So here I am.
Slouched in the back seat of the car with my face buried in a bracing cup of hot gunpowder green tea, just inhaling the scent like it’ll loan me the superpowers I’m lacking.
I watch Elle come flitting out into the grey morning light like she’ll bring the sun with her through the Seattle gloom.
She’s vivid enough in a yellow sweater and a knee-length pleated grey skirt with black kitten heels and black knit stockings. Smart, professional, but with her bright flourish in a rainbow-patterned scarf looped around her neck and matching colored clips peppered throughout her hair until it looks like a sunflower field dotted with butterflies.
Have I mentioned how much I hate how this girl makes me go poetic?
She waves at Miss Jacqueline over her shoulder as she strolls, then catches my eye through the car window with a knowing smile before she disappears.
Rick opens the back door for Elle, and she tumbles in—then stops short, blinking at me as she settles on the seat next to me, holding a paper cup of something steaming hot.
“Whoa,” she says, eyes wide. “You look, uh. Not happy. Or awake.”
“Not a morning person,” I grunt into my cup. “Can only fake it for so long.”
“What time do you normally wake up?”
“Noon,” I mumble emphatically.
Elle just giggles when she realizes I mean it.
She reaches out to flick my hair off my brow, brushing aside the one unruly strand that never stays in place, defying every hair product known to science.
It tingles where she touches me.
Hell, it feels familiar.
We’re acting, you jackass dolt. Keep it straight, I remind myself.
“You’re so freaking adorable,” she says brightly—and as Rick slides into the front seat after shutting us in, I catch a muffled snicker that tempts me to hire a new assistant-slash-driver. “If you’re not a morning person, why are you up so early?”