Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95196 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95196 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
“And where is it you call home?” she asked.
“The United States. America.” When she arched her brow once again, I added, “Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.”
“Ah.” She pursed her lips in distaste.
Why distaste? I loved my home state.
“Are you married?” Her gaze fell to my unadorned ring finger. “Or do you have a significant other, perhaps?”
Her brusque manner was turning a polite attempt to pass the time into an interrogation. I proceeded anyway, ready to launch my own inquiry. “No significant other.” As soon as things with August started to fizzle, I’d bailed. A pattern, my mother claimed. I’d liked him, I had, but we’d begun arguing even about the smallest issues. Give me peace or give me solitude.
My last impromptu date with a stranger—courtesy of Momma—hadn’t gone well. The moment the guy discovered my profession, he’d smiled all creepy-like and asked how I disciplined bad boys. Things only got worse from there.
“How about you?” I asked Red. “Are you dating? Married?”
“No’ single, but no’ married either. No’ quite yet,” she muttered, then drained the rest of her whiskey. With a determined wave that displayed perfect, painted nails, she signaled for another drink.
In a blink, the twenty-something bartender arrived with the beverage in hand. Had his feet grown wings?
“Anythin’ else I can do fer ye, Miss Campbell?” His gaze darted to the men, and he shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable.
She didn’t bother responding; she simply waved him away as she’d done to the others. He, too, obeyed. After bowing.
Was Isobel Campbell some kind of royalty?
“Wait. C’mere,” she called, and again, the bartender dashed over, eager to please. “Bring me one of those.” She pointed to my cranberry juice.
“Aye. Right away.” He rushed off and returned in a matter of moments.
Isobel claimed the glass, inspected the liquid, and thrust the beverage in my direction.
For me? I accepted with reluctance, unsure how to politely refuse. “Thank you.”
“You have a vocation, obviously,” she said, lifting the new whiskey to lips as red as her hair. “What is it you do?”
Obviously? I almost rolled my eyes. Despite my awkwardness, I like who I am as a person. I’m honest, loyal, and downright dependable. Three rare and highly valuable traits, in my opinion. “I’m an elementary school teacher. Special education.”
She wrinkled her nose again. “I see.”
Her derision failed to leave a mark. “And you?” Without thought, I took a long swig of my complimentary mocktail. Mmm. Even better than the first. “What is it you do?”
A pause stretched before she grumbled, “This an’ that.”
Ah. She lived off someone else’s money. So, really, which of us had room to judge?
“Do you like dogs?” she asked out of the blue.
Hmm. The sharpness of her tone pinged a soft internal alarm inside me. Caution, caution. Where was she going with this? “I guess. They’re cute and all, but I’m allergic. Why?”
“You’ll love my darling Thora. You can’t not love her. She’s a tiny black and white Pomeranian everyone adores.” Isobel drained her new drink with a single gulp. “One last question. How do you handle emotionally unavailable males?”
And I’d thought the dog query was weird. Wait. Was she trying to set me up with someone?
No, what a silly idea. I was mere minutes from my departure home. Did she seek advice about someone in her life? The one she wasn’t “quite yet” married to, perhaps. Should I put a stop to this? Interfering in a stranger’s relationship wasn’t wise.
But I didn’t stop. “I put them in time out.” A method I’d used with August, too. Because it worked.
“Time out? Oh, I bet he’ll love that.” She brightened and gave a clipped nod, as if she’d just made a major decision. “Aye, I believe you’ll do nicely indeed. Iron sharpens iron, and you, my dear, are a butter knife. Meaning, perfect.”
Butter knife? I’d do? What, for a nanny position? Was this an interview? Who was “he?”
Goodness gracious. “Well. It was very nice to meet you, Isobel, but it looks like the rain has let up. I’m heading out.”
I pushed to my feet, ready to surge outside, but I wobbled, struck by a wave of dizziness. What the—?
“Sit,” Isobel commanded. “I said there’d be no more questions. I didn’t say our discussion had ended.”
“I’m sick or something,” I told her, slurring my words. The world around me expanded and contracted. My heart slammed against my ribs, and a clammy sweat beaded on my brow. “Take me…hospital…hurry.” Please!
“You aren’t sick,” she stated, merciless. “You’re drugged.”
Drugged? Panic shot off inside me like a rocket. Everything I’d imagined earlier, when the leather-clad snack cake had followed me, replayed through my brain. Kidnapping. Ransom. Some kind of sacrifice. Or worse!
My vision blurred, and my knees buckled. I plopped into the chair.
“Better.” She drummed her nails against the table. At least, I thought her nails caused the click, click, click exploding inside my spinning head. “We’re going to trade, you and I.”