Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86828 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I won’t get answers if I’m left in the cold, and her story has me the most invested I’ve ever been. I just wish it were fictional since it has so many negative aspects.
I raise my eyes from Angel’s bare thighs to her beautiful face when she says, “I’m about to do an online order and was wondering if you’d like to add anything. Food? Medicine?” Her eyes lower to my abs for the quickest second before she blurts out, “A shirt?”
I take a moment to relish the slightest touch of pink creeping up her neck before replying, “Do they sell ornaments?”
Her confused face is cute as fuck. “Ornaments?”
Another admiring stare before another nod.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Why?”
I nudge my head to the entryway. “It was too late for my assistant to cancel the tree. I figured since it is here, we may as well put it up.”
She takes in the eight-foot tree flopped on the wooden floor of the entryway. “Or you could just give it to someone who doesn’t have a tree.”
She balks when I mutter, “You’re the only one in the building without a tree, and I’m not game to travel further than two blocks to find Ravenshoe’s version of Scrooge.” I flash her a flirty wink. “I don’t want you to change the locks on me while I’m out.”
“Like you did me?” She cocks her hip and fans her hand across it. “And your comment about me being the only resident in the building without a tree isn’t true. Mrs. Abramov from 4A is Jewish.”
“And is now living with her son in Boca.”
Her eyes pop. “Mrs. Abramov moved?”
She doesn’t want to believe me, but when I nod, her ability to sniff out a liar can’t be hidden.
She trusts me more than she cares to admit.
With a defeated sigh, she slumps onto the couch next to me. “I can’t say I blame her. She was Mrs. Richler’s first victim.”
I lean back, crinkling the plastic responsible for my free back wax an hour ago. “First victim?” When she nods, my nostrils flare. “You can’t call a tenant over one hundred thousand in arrears a victim.”
Angel sits up straight, her stance exposing I’ve hit a nerve. “Mrs. Abramov, along with the other two dozen tenants wrongly targeted by Mrs. Richler, paid her rent on time every month for years.”
It only took standing across from Mrs. Richler for two seconds to know she was a snake in long grass, but an untrusted man won’t get anything from a beautifully stubborn woman unless she is riled. Hence my reply. “That’s not what the rental ledger for this building shows. Multiple tenants are behind—”
“Because that”—it takes a mammoth effort for her to find an appropriate word to describe Mrs. Richler without swearing—“witch has increased the rent every month for three years straight!”
“A landlord has the right to adjust the terms of a rental agreement to match inflation.”
Angel scoffs before giving me precisely what I’ve been seeking for the past seven hours. “I don’t know how it works in your part of the world, but increasing rent on a ninety-nine-year lease here is illegal unless both parties agree. We”—she glares at me to ensure I know whose team she is on. It isn’t mine—“weren’t even asked.” Her eyes bounce between mine. For the first time, they’re not filled with silent admiration. “Why do you think she funded your trip across the pond?” Her mimic of my accent is atrocious. “What she is doing is illegal in this state and highly immoral.” She stands, too fired up to remain seated. “And at this time of the year. So much for the spirit of Christmas.”
She commences exiting before something forces her back. My ego wants to pretend it is because she wants another peek at my abs, but the glint in her eyes isn’t lustful. It’s malicious.
“The Scrooge of Ravenshoe you’re seeking is me. Proof… the pantyhose you’re using as emergency coffee filters doesn’t belong to me. I don’t know who owns them.” My stomach gurgles for the umpteenth time today. “But if I had to guess, I’d say they belong to Mrs. Richler. She stole my belongings on a blistering hot summer’s day. Sweaty, stinky pantyhose are always the first to go when your coochie is perspiring.”
With a blinding smile, she returns my earlier wink before she heads for her room.
13
ANGEL
Aknock sounds at my door half a second before the frame is filled with an impressive form. Despite scrubbing his tongue for thirty minutes straight with bitterly cold water since I drained all the hot water with a super long shower after our exchange in the living room, Christian still hasn’t discovered a fondness for shirts.
I wish I could make out I was clueless about why, but not even a nun could miss what he’s working. He is hot as fuck—and it is taking everything I have to remember that he’s only my plaything to exact revenge on.