Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
“Sorry. I know it’s been hard for her,” Wyatt says, smacking his lips.
“She’s a nice lady. What’s the problem?” Dakota asks carefully.
“Nothing,” I snap, hoping she’ll take the hint as I stuff more pastry into my mouth.
“His ma was the happiest lady anybody ever met before his old man passed,” Wyatt says, eyeing me. He knows to leave it at that.
“She seemed very bright passing out cupcakes at the office,” Dakota says.
Wyatt chuckles. “So, Nevermore met your ma?”
“Not like that,” I rush out. “Mother still drops into the office from time to time. She’s never taken to retirement well. Dakota works there, so—”
“Lookie there. His ears are all red again.” She points at my face, the little scoundrel.
I glare at her, swallowing a lump of pastry.
“I should fire you on the spot.”
Compared to us, she nibbles at her Regis roll, pulling off a small piece at a time and stuffing it in her mouth. “But you won’t. Because no one else is going to wait half an hour for Sweeter Grind after work to fetch your precious grub.”
“Burns, you idiot,” Wyatt mutters. “You’ve got the poor girl doing your dirty work now?”
“Dirty work?” Dakota asks.
“He knows I can’t resist a good cinnamon roll from that place, so when he wants me to talk, he brings a box.”
“Oh,” she says softly.
Yeah. Now you know, and you can leave me the hell alone about the damn cinnamon roll mystery, I think miserably.
Wyatt leans closer to me and whispers, “Don’t be like me, man. Wisen up before it’s too late. She’s a good one. Can’t let the wrong bitch trash your life.”
“She’s just an employee,” I flare, hating that his brain flips back to his own bitter past.
His situation was more complicated than that, of course, even if Olivia was a self-absorbed banshee.
“Just don’t fuck it up,” he tells me.
I’m annoyed that he won’t believe she’s just an assistant and that he’s comparing Dakota to his ex, even if he means well. She’s a firecracker, yeah, but she’s not underhanded.
“She’s not Olivia,” I whisper harshly, looking up to make sure Nevermore stays glued to her phone.
Wyatt nods firmly, already chomping on another cinnamon roll. He bites off another big piece and coughs. I regret not bringing him some water.
“Wyatt, are you taking anything to help with your cough?” Dakota asks, her eyes brimming with concern.
“No. I’m fine. It’s just a cold.”
“Are you sure? It sounds a little rough,” she tells him gently.
“It’s a shitty chest cold, but I’ll survive. I’ve had worse than this, right, Burns?”
His eyes flicker in the moonlight. They feel like magnets drawing out my soul.
“He has.” I don’t say more.
He certainly isn’t wrong.
How could I ever forget? Reaching for his hand, groaning as he pulled me from the debris.
That deafening explosion.
That panic as I threw myself on top of him, shaking him, blood fucking everywhere.
That improvised tourniquet I struggled to tie around his flesh, sure that he was about to bleed out, cursing God and the universe and everything in existence because I was sure he’d just given his life for mine.
Fuck.
Wyatt, stay. Stay with me, goddammit. You don’t leave like this.
I bite down on what’s left of my roll so hard it hurts my teeth, snapping me from those thoughts. I don’t care to relive that day, and Wyatt sure as hell doesn’t need to, either.
Stay with me.
Isn’t that all I’ve been asking him to do for years?
Still trying to save him when I thought that was long over while I waited to find out if he lived under an unforgiving sun, smoking a cigarette a few paces from a field hospital.
Dakota pulls a handful of peppermints from her purse, stands, and brings them to Wyatt.
“Here. My gift. If it ever gets too bad, try these,” she says, handing them over.
“Thanks. I will,” he says, clearing his throat loudly.
She returns to her seat beside me. I’m still bewildered he actually took the mints without fussing.
“Do you always travel around with mints?” I ask.
“Only since I started working for you.”
I snort.
“What? Why does working for me require mints?”
“Because when I miss lunch, I can always suck on a mint and tide myself over,” she tells me.
Wyatt lets out a bark of harsh laughter. “Damn, dude. Let the girl eat. No wonder she’s so skinny.”
“I’ve never told her to skip lunch once. She does that on her own,” I insist, leveling a look at her like I’m suddenly on trial.
“But you do give me impossible deadlines most weeks. Especially since I started juggling two different roles.”
“Like hell,” I growl, angry that it might be true.
“You do,” she says, wearing a teasing smile.
“Then they can’t be impossible by definition, Nevermore. I don’t need to be a writer to know that. If they were, you wouldn’t keep meeting them.”
“Yeah, because I skip meals and get six hours of sleep on a good night,” she mutters.