Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 691(@200wpm)___ 553(@250wpm)___ 461(@300wpm)
Anger loosens my tongue and pins a hard smile on my lips, one that doesn’t feel like me. My fingers dig into the strap of my bag.
“Mr. Arrendell,” I bite off. “I didn’t realize I forgot my scarf. Thanks for returning it.”
The glint in Xavier’s eye says I’m not fooling him, but we’re keeping up appearances, aren’t we?
“Naturally.” He beckons me forward. “Come in. I apologize for being so unseemly. I caught a whiff of your perfume, and I was hoping to identify the scent. It’s a lovely floral, almost vanilla. It reminded me we really should keep more flowers around this godforsaken house.”
Double yikes.
Stepping into this room feels like sticking my head through a noose.
Especially when I tear my eyes away from his smug face and glance down at the desk. There’s a small silver tray there, a business card lying at an odd angle, and—
Oh. Is that a few grains of white scattered there?
My breath stalls.
If that’s what I think it is…
There’s too much spinning around me to process. My voice sounds so distant when I say, “Actually, I don’t wear much perfume.”
“What a shame,” he replies smoothly. “It must be natural, then.” His lips curl in an oily smile, and he offers me my scarf. “Here, Miss Grey.”
Yeah.
I think I’d rather eat my own hand than get closer to him right now. I’ve never felt so filthy in my life from a compliment.
I edge a few inches deeper into his office, snatch my scarf from his hand without touching him, then move closer to the door with a dead-eyed “Thanks.”
All while he watches me with pleasure.
I swear, if I didn’t need this man’s money, I might just punch someone for the first time in my life.
Keep it together. For Grandpa.
This is for him, even more than Micah.
I have to remember that.
I just need to keep him on track, keep this professional, and keep my stuff the hell away from Sniffy the Clown.
So I peel my bag open and fish out the sketches while stuffing my scarf inside.
“I brought some fresh concepts.” I push them onto the desk hastily. “You can review them at your convenience and get back to me with any revisions. Or if nothing catches your eye, just let me know and we’ll work up something else.”
“Sit. I’ll have a look now.” He gestures flippantly to the seats opposite his desk. “It shouldn’t take long.”
Well, crap.
I was hoping to just drop off the sketches, make my escape, and maybe do the review over email. After that creepy lunch, I should’ve just tried to keep this remote to begin with.
But that’s never easy in a town this small for a client this big.
Plus, if I make excuses and run, it’ll be too obvious. I hate that so much rides on not alienating this maniac.
And there’s a stiff, proud part of me that hates backing down and letting him intimidate me when that’s what he’s clearly trying to do.
Deep down, I imagine Micah over my shoulder, silent and strong and encouraging.
Stay strong, Shortcake. Show me how brave you can be.
He’s just a tap of a button away.
He could stare down Xavier without a second’s hesitation.
So I sink down in the chair, holding my bag in my lap like a shield while Xavier settles behind his desk and flips the folio open. Under the guise of looking for something in my bag, I find my phone and silently tap the app open so the emergency button is right there.
I sincerely hope I won’t need it.
But it helps me feel calmer to have it ready.
Feeling calmer doesn’t stop how awkward this is, though.
Dead silence, while Xavier slowly flips through the sketch folio. His expression gives away nothing.
I don’t know if I should explain my ideas or just shut up and let him think, so I say nothing and just look around the office slowly, skimming the spines of books. They’re just old encyclopedias and other reference sets. Maybe a set of Great Western literary classics.
Hmph.
There’s something soulless about a man who doesn’t keep any other kinds of books around, especially when these are probably just background décor. But I remind myself that I don’t know Xavier, much less his reading tastes.
Even if that nagging core of sympathy over his dead brothers makes me feel a little guilty, I also don’t want to know Xavier that way.
Not when his presence feels so smothering my chest wants to seize up.
I refuse to have another asthma attack over the stiff silence in the office, broken only by rustling pages as he looks the sketches over, taking his sweet time. It’s only when I glance at him and realize he’s locked eyes on me over the top of the folio that the panic hits.
He’s doing it again.
Making me squirm on purpose.
Jesus. I am definitely not wasting an inhaler hit on this asshole today.