Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
“Don’t worry,” he tells me. “That’s Betty. She’s here to protect us.”
Uh-huh. I feel super safe. Also, I’d better give him a five-star review, just in case I ever happen to run into him and Betty again.
“You motherfucking fucker!” the driver roars when a Tesla Y cuts us off—and I can see his hand twitch toward the glove compartment. Luckily, he thinks better of that impulse, instead finishing with, “I hope your wife loses the microscope that she needs to find your dick!”
No comment. Nor do I comment when a minivan in front of us makes a sudden turn without signaling. The curses my driver showers him with are even more creative, and once again, he almost reaches for Betty.
Taking my phone out, I put in the search bar: “If a cab driver shoots someone, does that make the passenger an accessory to the crime?”
Turns out, the answer is no. Not unless I were to assist him. Good. I keep that thought front and center as we narrowly avoid several more potentially deadly altercations before arriving at our destination: a mansion at a gated beachside community.
“Thanks,” I say to the driver, sounding as convincing as I do when I thank Tierre for critiquing something about my outfit.
The guy grunts something unintelligible and gets my suitcase from the trunk.
To my relief, Betty stays in the glove compartment.
Chapter 15
Ashton
I’m still fuming as I enter the mansion Marcus rented and pick a room. Why did Kendall refuse my help with her luggage and the ride I offered her… twice? What the fuck did she think I was going to do to her in the limo?
It’s not like I offered her a ride on my dick.
Which, to my dick, sounds like a great idea even now that I know she hates me. For no reason whatsoever, other than some bullshit about “my type.”
The mere thought of it sets my teeth on edge.
Fuck. I need to stop thinking about her before I do something I regret, like spoiling Marcus’s wedding by confronting her about why she ghosted me after that night—and why she’s acting like I’m the one who ghosted her.
I dump my bags on the floor and call Randy, the guy I hired to dog-sit Sir Ems.
And yes, I still fucking call him Sir Ems because the name fits so well. Even though the name started off as a joke between me and the person I’m trying not to think about.
Randy gives me a quick update before pointing his phone’s camera at my dog, who recognizes either my face on the screen or my voice. His tail is wagging incessantly.
“Do you have any questions?” I ask.
“Are you talking to me?” Randy points the camera his way.
“No, I’m waiting for Sir Ems to bark them out. Yes, you.”
“In that case, no questions. I’m all set. Enjoy your vacation.”
“Thanks. Let me see him again.”
He does as I ask, and I tell Sir Ems that I’ll be back in four days, counting today. “One for the trip, one for the wedding, one to explore something nearby, and one to fly back.”
Sir Ems wags his tail approvingly, which hopefully means he’s mastered counting and won’t miss me too much.
“Okay. Bye, Randy. Take good care of him.”
I hang up and head over to the balcony to savor some ocean air. Unfortunately, Kendall is still on my brain. And on what passes for my dick’s brain.
I grit my teeth and take a seat on the lounge chair to videocall my sister.
“Hey.” She’s grinning as she picks up the call. “How was the flight?”
“Crazy.” I set my phone on the small table. “In trying to avoid Kendall, guess who I ran into?”
“No way. She was on the plane?”
“You know it.”
Jordan shakes her head. “Remind me why you tried to avoid her in the first place?”
Because I couldn’t be sure of my self-control around her. “She was so prickly at the brunch, I figured she’d be just as belligerent on the flight,” I say. “And since this is my best friend’s wedding, I didn’t want to be part of any drama. I was right too. On the plane, she told me she hates me.”
Jordan frowns. “She does? Why?”
“Apparently, she hates my ‘type.’” Which bothers me more than I’d like to admit.
Jordan’s frown deepens. “What type is that? Blond? Athletic? Awesome brother?”
I almost smile at that last one. “I think she’s decided I’m a player or something.”
“Which you are.”
“Was. Back in college. But isn’t every guy?”
“Depends. I wonder why she decided that. And why did she hook up with you three years ago if that was what she thought?”
A muscle ticks in my jaw. “I’ve got no clue.”
“Curious.” Jordan scratches her chin with two fingers.
“It was probably a one-night-stand situation for her from the start,” I say. “Maybe she thinks that’s something my ‘type’ is good for—if you have the itch.”