Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 104471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
“It’s hot here, too.” I sigh, even though anyone in this apartment would never know that.
The air conditioning is running smoothly.
I drop my purse on a bench at the foot of Mr. Hunt’s bed and glance toward his closet.
I’m still carrying the suits. If I had a gym membership, I could skip arm day for weeks after the workout I just had.
“Are you having lunch?” she asks because she’s a mom, and what’s in my stomach is and will always be her concern.
“Soon,” I half-lie.
I’ll eat a hotdog on my way back to the office. It’s cheap, semi-delicious, and portable, so it’s perfect on a day like today.
“Good.” She breathes a sigh of relief. “How is your boss treating you?”
Neither of us has time to get into that, so I answer swiftly, “He’s keeping me busy.”
I don’t go into any detail because my mom doesn’t need to know that I’ll hang up his suits and unpack his brand new socks soon. After that, I have to water his two dying plants and contact the company that cleans his apartment to book them in for tomorrow.
“That’s nice,” she says what she always does when she’s not sure if I’m giving her the whole story.
“I should go.” I sigh. “Can I give you a call after work tonight?”
I wince as soon as I ask since I don’t know exactly what time that will be. Mr. Hunt’s late day meetings sometimes run into the early morning hours.
“I have a shift at the hospital tonight,” she tells me, saving me from having to make up another excuse later. “I’ll call you before you start work tomorrow, Evie.”
That means she’ll call before she goes to bed after her all-night shift.
“Thanks, Mom,” I whisper. “I love you.”
“Love you, too,” she says before she ends the call.
I toss my phone on the foot of my boss’s bed. “It’s time to get to work.”
CHAPTER SIX
Evie
“You’re bleeding, Miss Starling,” Mr. Hunt says without a hint of concern in his voice.
“What?” I more than make up for it in my shocked response. I swear every person in this office building just heard me yell. “Where?”
One of his long fingers skims his smooth jawline. “Right there.”
Since I didn’t trip and do a face-plant on the sidewalk on my way back to the office, and a rogue seagull didn’t attack me as I hurriedly ate my lunch, I know it’s not blood.
It’s ketchup.
Goddamn this day all to hell.
“Take care of it,” he says, as though the apparent red streak on my chin is more of a nuisance to him than it is to me. “Now.”
“I will,” I assure him as I imagine what it would feel like to poke a finger into one of his blue eyes.
“The definition of now is this minute.” He taps the watch on his wrist.
It’s just another ridiculously overpriced accessory to him. When I was at his apartment earlier, I counted all of the watches in the two-tiered display case he keeps them in. My initial guess was short by four. With the addition of the one he’s wearing, that brings the grand total to thirty-five.
Who needs that many watches?
“It’s an Abdons watch.” He pushes the sleeve of his jacket up to show it off.
“I don’t care,” I scream inside, but there’s no outward evidence of that since I remain silent with a fake smile on my ketchup stained face.
“The blood is drying.” He points at my chin yet again. “Remove it and send me the file for the Eckert deal.”
“Okay.” I start to round my desk because the employee bathroom is down the corridor.
“Wait.” He stops me with a hand to my elbow.
A charge of awareness races through me from head to toe. It’s so unexpected that I stumble to the side.
His grip on me tightens, luring my gaze up to meet his.
For a total jerk, he really is a smokeshow.
“Send the file before you take care of that.” His gaze drops to my lips and beyond to the splash of red on my chin that he keeps referring to.
His smokeshow status just extinguished itself.
I have no doubt that if I stabbed myself with the silver letter opener on my desk, he’d make me wait to call an ambulance until I forwarded all of the incoming calls on the office line to my cell phone.
Tugging my arm free, I step back behind my desk, open the file he wants on my laptop, and send it to him in an email with the subject line: Eckert File Attached.
I know better than to send an email without a subject line.
I got that lecture one morning a few months ago when I prematurely pressed send on an email directed to him.
Since that debacle, I have always double-checked that the subject line serves its purpose so my boss doesn’t toss me a death stare when he opens his inbox.