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)
“Eww. But yeah, that’s possible. Or maybe someone hurt her recently, some guy who turned out to be a player.”
“You think?” The mere possibility makes me want to break the motherfucker’s dick. And crush his balls.
“Yeah.” Jordan’s eyes shine. “And if I’m right, the solution is simple: just tell her you’re not that type.”
“Right. I’m sure she’ll believe me.”
Jordan wrinkles her nose. “Yeah, I guess that type would say they’re not that type.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “What would you know about that type?”
“Oh. Nothing.” She bats her eyelashes innocently. “Nothing. At. All… Brother.”
My phone dings.
“Speak of the she-devil,” I say. “Marcus put me down as the contact for the guard at the gate, and I was just notified that one Kendall Bryce has entered the property.”
“Ah,” Jordan says. “In that case, you might want to put on a fresh shirt.”
With that, she hangs up.
Gritting my teeth, I head back to the room, unlock my suitcase, and change into a fresh shirt—but not because Jordan said anything, and certainly not for Kendall.
I just want to feel fresh and restored.
And if I happen to look better when I run into a certain brunette—say, when I help her get her bag up the stairs because I’m a fucking gentleman—so be it.
Chapter 16
Kendall
When Betty and the driver depart, I roll my suitcase to the front staircase of the mansion and take it all in: the giant columns, the twenty-foot ceilings, and—thanks to it being beachfront—the smell of the salty air.
“Let me help you with that,” says a deep, smooth, and all-too-familiar voice.
I narrow my eyes at Ashton, who’s just exited the front doors and is coming down the stairs. “You’re also staying here?”
Is it my imagination, or does he look even hotter than he did on the plane?
“Everyone is.” He stops next to me and grabs my bag before I can stop him. “I thought you knew that.”
I glare up at him. “If you’re here, then I’m not.”
Ignoring my statement, he carries my bag up the stairs with ridiculous ease. “I thought we agreed to be civil.”
I hurry after him and grab the handle of my suitcase as soon as he puts it down. “And I will be. At the wedding. Tomorrow.”
He blows out a frustrated breath as I begin rolling my suitcase back toward the stairs. “You can take the room that’s farthest from mine.”
Before I can respond, Janie—the third musketeer to me and Emma back in college—runs out and lays it on very thick about how happy she is to see me.
Fuck. I can’t bail now. Ever since Janie started dating her current boyfriend, whom I’ve dubbed Mr. Suck-Up, two things have drastically changed: her appearance and how frequently we hang out. If I walk away without explaining my beef with Ashton, she’ll think it a snub to her.
So I pointedly ignore Ashton’s glare as I wheel my suitcase deeper into the mansion, with Janie trotting next to me and telling me all about how she and her boyfriend flew on Marcus’s plane, along with everyone else—and had a blast, of course.
“One second,” I tell Janie, stopping as I realize I don’t know where I’m going. Pasting on a fake smile, I turn around to face Ashton, who’s standing in the entryway, watching us with slitted eyes. “Which room should I take?”
As in, which is the farthest from his?
He gestures at the south wing. “Third door on the left. Help yourself.”
And before I can reply, he disappears down the hallway opposite the entryway.
“What was that about?” Janie asks. “Do you know him?”
“No.” If I didn’t explain this to Emma, I’m certainly not going to share with Janie.
“Well, I think he likes you,” she says. “He was eyeing you like you’re edible.”
My mind flashes back to all the times he ate me out during our night together, and an unwelcome flush creeps up my neck. I huff to cover up my discomfort. “I’m sure that’s how he looks at anything with breasts.”
Janie snorts. “He didn’t look like that at me, and I have breasts.”
That she does—and they’re still natural, as far as I can tell, though she’ll probably get a boob job soon.
Back in the day, I called Janie “Miss Natural” because she studiously avoided chemicals, fragrances, and dyes. Now, due to Mr. Suck-Up’s influence, she looks like she’s stepped out of one of Tierre’s shoots. The only nod to her former self is the lack of perfume, but that is merely to appease Marcus, the person Mr. Suck-Up is dying to please.
“Did you know that tonight’s dinner—and tomorrow’s reception—will be prepared by a Michelin-starred chef?” she asks.
“No.” And the Janie I knew never cared about things like Michelin stars; her main concern would’ve been whether the ingredients were non-GMO.
“I wonder which one,” she muses. “Landon thinks it’s one of Gordon Ramsay’s students, or maybe even the man himself.”