Total pages in book: 170
Estimated words: 160791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 804(@200wpm)___ 643(@250wpm)___ 536(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160791 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 804(@200wpm)___ 643(@250wpm)___ 536(@300wpm)
“Are you okay?” she asks, frowning at me.
“I’m fine.” I slap on a smile, unwilling and unable to offload my woes on my friend. Her strength is putting mine to shame. “Are you?” I counter, deflecting the question.
She eyes me suspiciously. “I’m fine. Doc checked me over this morning.”
“But you had a checkup with Doc yesterday.” Twice. Before and after the shoot-out at Hiatus. I shake my head to myself. A shoot-out. For Christ’s sake.
“James is just being paranoid.” She stands and pulls down the waist of her leggings a little, revealing her wound. It’s no longer angry, the bruising faded completely. “Hardly noticeable,” she murmurs. I wouldn’t say that, and even if the visible scars fade to nothing, I know the hidden scars will always be there.
I find my purse, pull out my gun, and slip my feet into some sneakers. “Ready,” I declare, holding my pistol up and posing Charlie’s Angels style.
Beau laughs, mirroring me. “Never send a man to do a woman’s job,” she says, flipping me a wink. And just like that, I’m smiling with no effort at all. Beau is literally a godsend in my life, and I know she feels the same about me. An urge too powerful comes over me, and I throw my arms around my friend, hoping she appreciates just how much I appreciate her. “I feel the same,” she says quietly, embracing me, both of us with handguns in our grasps.
“Watch where you’re pointing that gun,” I say, my words thick, the lump in my throat growing.
She holds me tighter. “We’re not allowed to cry.”
“I know.”
“Then stop it,” she orders, pulling away and catching the wayward tear trailing down my cheek.
“Sorry.” I quickly brush at my face. “You do know what you’ve let yourself in for, don’t you? I’m a terrible shot. Ask Danny.” We head for the door, and I swing it open. Tank and Fury turn, and both back up into the wall when they catch sight of the guns in our grasp. “Oh, crap.” I shake my head, holding up a hand in surrender. “I’m not going to shoot you,” I assure them, although I seriously wonder if a bullet would even penetrate their humongous frames. They both relax. “How’s your arm?” I ask, pointing at Tank’s bicep with my gun.
His hands come up. “Mrs. Black,” he says, his voice pleading. “C’mon.”
“Shit, sorry.” I lower my weapon, and Tank relaxes once again. “We’re going shooting.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.” I turn to Beau. “Where?”
“Somewhere in the grounds. It’s big enough.” She heads toward the stairs. “We’re not leaving the mansion so no need for an escort.”
I follow, as do Tank and Fury, ignoring her. “Strict orders,” he grunts. “You won’t know we’re here.”
I look over my shoulder as they follow us down the hallway to the stairs. They can’t even walk side by side, they’re so wide. “I doubt it,” I murmur.
After bypassing the kitchen to each grab a coffee, we make our way to the gardens. Esther’s on one of the pathways, talking to a lady I don’t recognize. She shakes her hand, all very officially, and Bud takes over, escorting the woman to the gates. “Who’s that?” I ask, pointing. With my gun.
“We seriously need to teach you some gun etiquette,” Beau scorns, pushing my arm back down. “So, who was it?”
“I was interviewing her for the housekeeper position.”
“Ohhhh,” we both say, long and drawn-out. Something tells me it’s another no.
“How many is that now?” I ask, smiling when Esther narrows her eyes on me.
“You think I’m being fussy.”
I laugh. “I don’t think you’re being fussy.” She’s being very fussy. “What was wrong with that one?” My arm muscles engage again to point, but I manage to keep them under control.
“I haven’t put my finger on it yet.”
“Well,” Beau says. “You better pull your finger out, because Danny will be hiring for you if you don’t.”
Her shoulders drop. “I wouldn’t ask him to hire someone to do his job.”
“What, kill people?” I ask over a laugh, which isn’t at all appreciated by Danny’s mother. Her warning look is fierce as I sip my coffee, backing away with Beau.
“Where are you two going, anyway?” she asks, eyeing our armed hands, and then our two personal protection officers.
“Shooting practice.”
“Don’t forget the tent company will be here later to talk about where it’ll be set up.”
“I won’t.”
“And the men’s suits are ready to collect.”
“Great.”
“And your dresses will be delivered tomorrow.”
“Super.” A wedding, a celebration, doesn’t seem quite appropriate now. I pout, my stomach turning again, dislodging that anxiety. So I drown it with coffee.
“Um, Rose,” Beau says, grabbing at my arm.
“What?”
She starts backing up, her eyes round.
Confused, I locate the source of her wariness and find Danny’s two Dobermans, Barbie and Cindy, before us, their thick necks extended, their eyes set. They’re not growling. Not barking. But they’re wary, their stance threatening. My confusion multiplies. They’re used to me now, and they’re used to Beau too, so what’s their problem? “Hey, girls,” I coo, extending a hand for them to sniff.