Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 91212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
If he ordered champagne and strawberries, then he must know I had them at Daydreamers. As I grab a bottle and a glass from the table, I have to wonder if he knows about that, does he know about my other menu selection?
I keep my mouth closed despite the urge to explain why I chose what I did.
Does he think I opted to add 3b to my night?
My face feels like it's on fire when I sit down on the smaller sofa and pour myself a glass of champagne.
He looks from my glass to the bottle, no doubt annoyed that I didn't bring him a glass if he had any intentions of drinking it in the first place.
Instead of complaining or getting up to get the other glass, he simply leans forward once I've poured my glass and pulls the bottle from the table, lifting it to his lips and taking a long drink.
Once I've drunk my first glass, too quickly to be considered couth, I pull the bottle from his hand and pour a second one, this action gaining me a smile.
The first bottle disappears much too quickly, and he's the one to stand and grab the other one from the service tray, opening it and tipping it over my glass until bubbles rise and fall over my fingers, making a mess on the sofa.
His eyes stay locked on me as I lift my glass to my mouth but opt to lick the champagne from my fingers rather than first taking a drink.
He swallows, and I realize that I like his reaction. I find this man devastatingly handsome, from his silver hair to the way his eyes never seem to miss a thing. The way one side of his mouth pulls up higher when he smiles draws my attention there, and I feel like I'm being manipulated past him wanting to get me drunk so he can leave without worrying that I'll go back to the spa looking for answers.
"What's wrong?" he asks as he lifts the second bottle of champagne to his lips.
"Are you trying to get me drunk?"
"Are you drunk?" he counters, his smile wide a second before he wraps his lips around the bottle.
Just seeing the quick upturn of his lips tells me that he may have also imbibed a little more than he had initially anticipated. He seems a little more laid back, and he has been paying more attention to me in the last half hour than he has to the show playing on the television.
I give him a smile of my own, feeling a zing of something spectacular run its course through my body.
This has got to be the absolute worst timing in the world for me to be thinking of anything other than my little sister, but the reprieve from the guilt is nice too.
"Tell me more about Cerberus," I say, rather than telling him I should go to bed like my head is urging me to do.
During a conversation with Mr. Anderson, he told me that Mr. Yarrow was an agent for ICE, and he was working this case with them as a favor, but not in any government official capacity.
I assume he'll shut me down and raise another wall, but he gives me a soft smile.
"I joined Cerberus right out of the Marine Corps. It was still brand new," he says, looking away as if he's pulling those memories to the front of the line in his head. "I had a buddy that suggested I fill out an application."
"Bikers have applications?"
He shakes his head. "Not anymore. They're selective on who they pick. These days, it's a whole vetting process."
"Do you think you'd pass muster if you had to reapply these days?"
He scoffs. "I'm too old for that shit now."
"I mean, if you were younger."
He looks back at me as if giving it great consideration. "I don't know."
"Why did you leave? Just grow out of it?"
He shakes his head. "I thought I could be more helpful here. I was young. I just knew I could eliminate Cerberus's need to leave the country because I'd stop all the sex trafficking from the US."
"Lofty goals," I whisper.
"I was an idiot. Things have only gotten worse. It's easier now more than ever for the bad guys to keep working. Because of private companies, they have access to all the same technology that used to be protected by the government and military. It's awful."
"Knowing what you know now, do you regret leaving?"
"Every second of every day," he says without hesitation as he pulls his eyes from me to stare back at the television screen.
There's more to it than he's saying, but I'm not privileged to that information, and I know better than to ask.
"Tell me about growing up in the shadow of a senator," he prods after a short moment of silence.