 by Winter Renshaw.jpg)
Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Ambitious and career-driven, I have zero time for dating until Blind Love—an app designed for those seeking genuine romantic connections without the hassle of awkward first dates—hooks me in. The only catch? Ninety days of anonymous messaging are required before identities are revealed.
I connect with Stranger88 immediately, and before long our flirty banter becomes a welcome escape from my demanding schedule.
Soon I’m desperate to know his true identity, so I go digging—only to discover that Stranger88 … is no stranger at all.
In a cruel twist of fate, it turns out the mystery man consuming my every thought is fellow attorney Brooks Abbott—a sharp-tongued devil in a three-piece suit, my biggest office rival, and the one obstacle standing between me and the promotion of my dreams: a job Brooks has every intention of landing.
Behind the screens, there’s no denying our electric chemistry, but at work, our rivalry grows stronger than ever.
But when passion meets profession, will we redefine the Law of Attraction … or will our hearts face a ruthless cross-examination with no chance of appeal?
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a standalone romance. You do not need to read HATE MAIL or YOURS CRUELLY first.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
I’ve spent almost two-thirds of my life in hell—kind of.
My mother used to tell me goals were a necessary ingredient of life, but equally important was celebrating—and enjoying—the little achievements along the way. She said failing to recognize those wins would be doing myself a disservice; that it’d be the equivalent of glazing over the journey and living solely in pursuit of the destination, thereby missing all of the good stuff. In my youthful naivety, I staunchly disagreed with her. When “ambition” is your middle name, the destination is the only thing that matters. Screw the journey. It’s a means to an end. I brushed her advice aside back then, razzing her about her obsession with self-help books and motivational posters.
Now that I’m a little older, I’ve learned the hard way that the she was right.
But breaking up with my ambition would be akin to severing a limb. It’s a necessary and vital part of me and has been for as long as I can remember—beginning with one particular Christmas morning. I sprinted downstairs, expecting to burst at the sight of colorfully wrapped gifts under our sparse little Charlie Brown tree. Only there was nothing. I quickly learned my mother’s boyfriend at the time had lost his job the day before and my mother had to return all the gifts so we could pay our rent. Later that day, over a meager dinner of toast and eggs, I heard the two of them discussing how to fight his wrongful termination—except they couldn’t afford a lawyer.
I made up my mind then and there that I was going to be a lawyer someday. And not just any lawyer. One with power and influence and a big, fat bank account. I’d see to it that my family would have to worry about money again. We would be happy.
At twenty-eight, I’m so close to achieving that goal I can almost taste it.
And while I’m proud of myself, I have to admit it doesn’t feel the way I thought it would. Every A, every debate team win, every trophy, and every hood, stole, and cord I’ve worn as I’ve walked graduation stages—have all felt like ticking a box before moving on to the next thing.
Now that I’m on the verge of a life-changing promotion, the prospect of not having any more boxes left to tick has been weighing on my mind lately along with a single glaring question: what comes next?
I’m standing at the front door of my apartment, where my dry-cleaning has been delivered and is waiting on the hook on my door. Every week, it’s like clockwork.
Same gray, black, and navy suits, same white blouses, same old routine.
I grab the plastic-wrapped bundle and step inside the abyss of my dark apartment, dropping the clothes, bag, and keys on the floor and fumbling for the light switch on the wall. When I finally flip it on, my gaze lands on the pyramid of cardboard boxes in the corner. If a person didn’t know me, they’d think I only recently moved in, but the fact is I’ve lived here for over a year already, ever since finishing law school at the University of Maine and starting as a junior associate at Foster and Foster, one of Maine’s most prestigious law firms.
It’s nearly midnight and I’m dead on my feet after another twelve-hour shift. But that’s what a girl has to do if she’s going to make partner at Foster and Foster and start cashing the big paychecks. Once I’m promoted, I’ll start getting bonuses. Big bonuses—not the laughable ones they give out to juniors and associates and paralegals at Christmas time. Bonuses that will allow me to pay off my mom’s house so she can finally retire. Bonuses that will allow me to donate to all of my favorite causes and not think twice. Bonuses that will allow me to finally book that girls’ trip to Paris with my best friends and not have to worry about checking my bank account as we live like queens. Bonuses that will allow me to pick and choose my clientele so that I can help people going through the same hardship my mother went through a lifetime ago.
Trudging to my fridge, I come face-to-face with Bevin, my roommate from USM, in the form of a wedding invitation tacked to my fridge. In the image, she’s gazing adoringly into the eyes of a tall man with a trimmed beard and quirky bowtie, both of them looking deliriously in love. While I’m thrilled for her, it’ll be yet another wedding I’ll be attending… alone.
And it’s not even that I mind going to these things alone. I can talk to anyone about anything. It’s the fielding questions part that sucks. Everyone wants to know why I’m single, as if it’s some medical condition or I’m trying to make some statement. Inevitably, when I explain that I’m married to my job and don’t have time to date, I’m always met with the same reaction—pity. Even if the person asking doesn’t say anything, it’s still written all over their face.