Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 206(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 206(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
I wish I were more like that. That I cared less about what people thought about me. Over the last few years, I’ve been trying to get better at it.
“You okay?” I jump at the sound of Carson’s voice right next to me. To balance me, his hand comes down on my hip. “Sorry.”
“You move quickly for someone your size,” I tease.
“I heard him coming,” Mousey pipes up. “Didn’t think you’d call him fat.”
“I wasn’t calling him fat!” I hiss. Mousey only goes back to giggling. I’d be annoyed, but she’s so cute, I can’t stand it.
“I didn’t think you were.” Carson's hand slips against my back. He glances down at Mousey. “The OG really said that?” He looks amused, which is something I haven’t seen from him yet.
“If anyone called you fat, it was her." I point down at her. "She said she heard you coming,” I defend myself, but I can’t help but smile. “Did you just give her a nickname?”
“You called her OG first.” Now it’s Carson defending himself. He's still trying to play like he doesn’t like cats, but Mousey warmed right up to him. Cats can read people.
“Did she tell you anything else?” His lips twitch as he says it, but he has the good grace not to laugh. “Anything about … me?”
I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, having an idea of what he’s talking about.
“You tell him I ratted on him about his hard-on for you?”
I snort a laugh. Carson’s eyes narrow on Mousey. I cover my mouth with my hands to keep from laughing more.
“Just that the chef is good people,” I manage to get out. “What was your take on him?” I change the subject, trying to steer our conversation away from hard-ons. Even as I do, though, I peek down to see if it’s still there.
“I don’t think he had anything to do with it.”
“What?”
“The chef.”
“Right!” What is wrong with me? Did I really try to inspect his crotch? Get it together, May, I remind myself. Focus. You have a job to do.
“Need to chat with the butler.” Carson runs his fingers through his short, dark hair, making it a bit unruly. Without thinking, I reach up to fix it. His brows raise in surprise. I notice a small cut through one of them. The scar somehow makes his face more handsome.
“Are you petting him?” Mousey asks tartly. “Trying to make me jealous, I see.”
“Sorry.” I jerk my hand back, not sure which of them I’m apologizing to.
“It’s fine.” But Carson steps back.
Oh, gosh. I made him uncomfortable.
“Should be.” Mousey licks her paw. I feel bad. She did lose her boyfriend. Or a kind of boyfriend. Mousey swore she didn’t know what happened to Fitzy, but he wouldn’t have gotten up and left her. He’s obsessed with her. Borderline stalker. He is only tolerated. So she says. “Are you two going to get back to work?”
“So what now?” I pipe up.
“Let’s have a look around.”
“Lead the way.” I was talking to Carson, but Mousey is the one that takes off, stopping at the edge of the kitchen and waiting for us to follow.
Carson hesitates, his intense eyes on me. “Are you really talking to the cat, or is this some trick to make money?”
I knew it was only a matter of time before I got this question. Most people think I’m running some sort of scam. I can’t say I blame them. I try to hide the pang of hurt that cuts through me. It shouldn’t bother me, but for some reason it does. More so this time than ever.
“Are you going to interrogate me too?” I huff.
“I can.” He gives me a smirk. I think he’s trying to tease me, but I don’t find it so funny. The smile drops when I don’t respond. “Shit,” he mutters. “I’ve met some psychics in my time. But never one like you.”
“I can’t read the future.” I say this before hurrying toward Mousey, leaving Carson behind.
If I were psychic, I would have known there is no escaping a man like Carson. This is especially true if Carson has his sights set on you.
5
CARSON
Ican tell I’ve offended her, though I’m not certain how. Maybe I shouldn't have asked if the psychic thing is a schtick. It’s not as if I’d judge her if it were. It’s a clever little hustle if it parts women like Mrs. Farrol from their cash. Even so, something about May tells me that’s not the case with her.
“I didn’t mean to question your integrity. I just wanted to know what I’m dealing with. Not a personal judgment.” I take her elbow lightly as we enter a hallway entirely covered with portraits of Mrs. Farrol. Her face at every age watches us closely from every inch of wall space.