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)
Kendall’s phone rings.
“Will you please excuse me?” she says. “It’s Emma. She and Marcus just came back from their honeymoon.”
“Of course,” Jordan says. “Go.”
When Kendall leaves, Mom gives me a dirty look. “Marcus—as in, your friend, Marcus Carelli?”
The fact that I didn’t help my parents snag a billionaire son-in-law via Jordan is one of the many grievances I have to deal with.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask Jordan. “Maybe a drink or a snack?”
“Yeah. Can you get me a Jell-O cup? Green flavor.”
I purse my lips. “Are you allowed gelatin if you have this alpha-gal thing? It might come from mammals.”
She pouts. “This is going to take some getting used to. Bring me an animal cracker. It might be the closest I’ll get to eating animals from now on.”
“I’ll go get some.” After I make sure they’re vegan, that is.
I walk briskly and spot Kendall still speaking on the phone nearby.
Should I call Marcus?
No. Maybe later. Right now, I need to get animal crackers and figure out where Kendall and I stand.
Turns out, the brand of animal crackers they sell here is vegan, so I pay for them and head back—which is when Gwyneth steps into my path.
“Can we talk?” she asks, smoothing a hand over her sleek brown hair.
I blow out a breath. “What about?”
“Us,” she says.
Fucking hell. “There is no us. And there won’t be. You know that.”
Her eyes gleam. “Because of Kendall?”
I frown. “How do you know her name?”
“I know a lot more than that.”
Translation from crazy speak: she probably hacked the hospital again, learned the name from Jordan’s visiting record, and then stalked Kendall online.
“My sister is waiting for me,” I say. “Have a nice life.”
“Wait,” Gwyneth says. “Don’t go.”
I wave the crackers. “Jordan is waiting for this.” And more importantly, we have nothing to talk about.
“Your parents will never approve of her,” Gwyneth says.
I shrug. “Not that it’s any of your business, but in fact, they like her just fine. Not that I care.” The opposite, in fact.
“They won’t like her once they learn what she does,” Gwyneth says.
“Why not? Mom loves fashion, and Dad only cares about—”
“Not that,” she snaps. “Her other business. The one for perverts.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Gwyneth smiles triumphantly. “You don’t know, do you?”
I narrow my eyes. “Know what?”
She takes out her phone and types something in before showing me the screen. “Do these look familiar?”
I look at the URL first. It’s the website porn stars use to milk money from their fans. This specific page belongs to someone named Candy Berlin, and all she’s posted there are feet.
Tons and tons of pictures of feet.
Wait a second.
Those are familiar-looking feet, and not just because of the taupe-colored nail polish, and the two silvery toe rings, and the golden anklet.
I know these feet.
I like them.
I came on them.
These are Kendall’s, but—
“She sells her dirty socks as well.” Gwyneth wrinkles her nose. “Or if you have serious cash to burn, she can sell you her used Manolo Blahniks.”
Sells used socks? I have noticed her putting worn socks into plastic bags a couple of times. I thought it was some neat freak tendency, or some weird girl thing where she was afraid that I might smell something I shouldn’t, but she’s selling them?
“If you don’t believe me, I can show you how I found this,” Gwyneth says. “It was pretty trivial, actually. All I had to do was—”
“Now, Gwyneth, listen to me very carefully.” I let my turbulent emotions show in my tone. “If you mention this to anyone again—or so much as google Kendall’s name—I will be talking to my new client, who happens to be Director of the FBI.”
She pales. “You wouldn’t want your client to know that your girlfriend is a—”
“If you finish that sentence, I’ll call him right now.” Just to show her I’m not bluffing, I pull up his contact in my phone and turn the screen toward her.
“Look, I just thought it was something you should know,” Gwyneth says.
“And now I do. But if anyone else finds out—even if not through you—I’m making that call, and you’d better pray you didn’t leave a digital footprint when hacking this hospital.”
She turns even paler. “I can’t believe I actually thought you and I could be together again.”
“I can’t believe you thought so either. I told you we were done, and I meant it.” I don’t add that after this conversation, even if an apocalypse wiped out all other women on the planet, I would sooner let humanity die out than be with her.
With a huff, Gwyneth turns on her heel and rushes out of the cafeteria.
I take a seat on the nearby chair, take out my phone, and pay the exorbitant fee required to see Candy Berlin’s feet once again.
Yep.
Still there.
A part of me thought that maybe Gwyneth had somehow faked the page—though I now realize that was a last-ditch hope at best. I mean, where would Gwyneth have found so many pictures of Kendall’s feet?