Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69063 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69063 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Shasha didn’t.
He couldn’t care less who he needed to fire for my sister.
I actually think he sometimes liked it.
He’d fired three of them in the last few years.
“Where is your car located?” he inquired.
I grimaced. “Costco.”
“Fuck.” He sighed. “You know I hate that fucking area.”
I knew he did.
I also knew that I loved it.
Shopping was the best thing in the world.
“Drop me off at the Whataburger, and I’ll get some food there before heading to my car,” I suggested.
It was really freakin’ early, and I had plenty of time. Though, I really wanted to get my ice maker.
“I don’t know what you see in that place,” he muttered as he started driving.
I gave him a hurt look and said, “Honey butter biscuits.”
“You’ll die of a heart attack before the age of forty if you keep eating it every day for breakfast. Plus, there are too many carbs in that choice,” he supplied helpfully.
“But I’ll die happy,” I ignored the carbs comment. “And sometimes, I don’t always get Whataburger.”
“Sometimes you get Chick-Fil-A,” he snorted. “Like that’s any better, though.”
“I’ll have you know I had Panera Bread last week.”
“Only because you had a mystery shopper thing there,” he pointed out. “And still, I’m fairly sure that I heard you coming back with one of those cinnamon crunch bagels and that sweet-ass cream cheese. And a cinnamon roll.”
“You’re right, I did have a mystery shopper thing there.” I shook my head. “It’s hella expensive, though. I’m sorry, but you can’t convince me that they can’t make a profit off a bagel for a dollar.”
“They probably could, but this is a country that has businesses that want to make a profit. Not give shit away. So yeah, they’re going to up the price of a bagel that you could’ve made at home for pennies. Because if you wanted to make it at home, you would’ve made it at home,” he grumbled.
I began to ignore him so that I didn’t have to hear him go on his spiel about the United States being a capitalist paradise. And it being the “American Dream.”
Logically, I knew.
But I volunteered enough that I saw what the economy was doing to us. I knew that there were people out there struggling to make a living and barely treading water.
I’d never experienced it myself.
I grew up in an influential family that never wanted for anything.
When I finally cut myself off from my dad, I immediately found a job that would allow me to do what I wanted for a living without having to pay to do what I loved—shop.
I’d lucked out.
First I’d become an Amazon Reviewer that got paid and got sent free stuff.
I’d then applied to become a mystery shopper and got paid to go into people’s businesses and buy things.
Further, I’d started up a blog at just the right time, and people followed me for the “must haves” and “it” items.
I even got paid for content now.
Not that I was what I would consider an “influencer.”
Truthfully, I didn’t like to get behind a camera and never would.
The notoriety of having your baby sister go missing and having your dad the leader of the Russian Bratva made it almost impossible to stay anonymous.
And, to be completely honest, I didn’t want to be in the spotlight.
I wanted to live my life unimpeded by the challenges that my brothers’ and father’s life choices afforded me.
“Busy today,” Shasha said as he pulled into the Whataburger.
“It’s Wednesday,” I pointed out. “Today is the day that all the old men meet and bring all their old, restored cars. You’d probably like going out and admiring them.”
“Hmm,” he said as he came to a stop right in front of the door that led inside. “You need your bodyguard.”
I rolled my eyes. “I already told you, I’m not doing it.”
His lips thinned as he grumbled something under his breath.
I got out, blew him a kiss, and headed inside.
He watched me go with a glower on his face, and I nearly laughed.
I walked inside and waved at all the old men, then made a quick turn to head to the bathroom first before ordering.
I’d just finished up and was walking out of the bathroom when I ran face first into a hard, muscular body.
“Ooomph,” I grumbled as I was almost forced right back into the bathroom.
The door kept me from doing that, though, and the hands belonging to the muscular body shot out and caught me up before I could ping pong between the two hard surfaces.
“Walk of shame?” a deep, husky voice asked.
I shivered as my gaze lifted to see…
The man from the bar.
I allowed my eyes to study what I could—the man was holding on to my hips after all.
Bending over sideways, I checked out his jeans and boots, then looked back at him. “Me, walk of shame? No. I stayed with my sister last night and didn’t have a change of clothes. What about you? You’re still in the same thing, too.”