Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Then I drive to the office.
I march—well, glide, I guess, in the elevator—upstairs, then walk to his office door.
I knock firmly and walk in without waiting for permission.
August glances up, his mouth opening sharply—only to shutter over again. He gives me another mournful puppy dog look that makes me seethe before he looks away, staring glassily at the wall.
I’m almost mad that he looks so good when he’s being broody.
That little curl of hair over his wrinkled brow, his full lips just slightly parted and pensive.
And of course his suit—steel grey today, with a black tie and a dark-grey shirt—looks impeccable on him, framing the perfect lines of his well-built body.
He’s not allowed to be this hot when I’m pissed at him.
“Miss Lark.” His tone is empty when he finally speaks. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Oh, fuck off,” I throw back. Not exactly how I wanted to start this, but my temper’s just as explosive as the rest of me. I stalk across the room, my heels clicking, and steal his hand from his laptop keyboard, tugging as hard as I can. “And come with me.”
My tugging isn’t even enough to make his desk chair swivel. But August flinches and pulls back on his hand.
“Miss Lark, I have to work—”
“Nope! You have to stop being a coward first.” I yank on him again. “You’re coming now. I’m not giving up, even if you pick me up and chuck me out of here.”
This time I manage to pull him off balance, more by sheer luck than anything.
He slides forward in his seat and rises to his feet to get his bearings in a flex of his muscular thighs against his slacks. It gives me a little more leverage to brace my heels and really pull as I turn to drag him toward the door.
“Miss Lark!” he protests. “Where are you—”
“Stop calling me Miss Lark, and I’m taking you to eat a picnic.” I whirl back to face him, letting go of his hand and bracing my own on my hips. “Look, you can sit here and sulk, or you can come eat with me. Somehow, I don’t think you want to sulk that badly.”
August gives me an odd look, but his gaze flits away again, avoiding eye contact. He gives me a weary sigh and reaches up to brush that wild lock of hair back, but it just falls over again, dangling in front of one glassy blue eye.
“If I agree to this, will you let me finish my damned work?”
“Sure,” I say, suddenly feeling sour. “You can do whatever you want.”
His lips purse. It’s like the old August I met on the plane all over again.
“Whatever.”
Yep.
I could kick him right now.
This has been building up for a solid week, but even I wasn’t expecting that I’d end up bullying him into coming with me.
It feels so awkward as I compose myself so I don’t look like a tiny red ragey monster, then turn to lead him out of his office. It’s so weird, when before we’d been leaning on each other in front of the staff, walking arm in arm or hand in hand, but now I’m leading, with him trailing behind.
As I pass one of the sales guys at his workstation, I catch a little whisper I probably wasn’t supposed to hear.
“Somebody’s gone and pissed off the little missus . . .”
“Can you blame her?” the woman next to him whispers back. “Marshall’s a cold fish.”
I flush with embarrassment.
I hate that even after the way he’s treated me, the instinct rises up to jump to his defense.
But I pretend not to hear their shit-talk.
The ride down the elevator is painful, both of us on opposite ends and staring up at the numbers. Getting in the Audi is worse. It’s small and cramped, and August has to adjust his seat to slide it all the way back so he’s not eating his knees with every speed bump.
As I pull out onto the street, I try to smile for my own sake—but it feels like it’s stitched on my face in rigid seams. The silence could choke a rattler, as Gran would say.
Good thing we’re not going far.
It’s midmorning, and there’s less traffic as we head to Alki Beach.
I park and reach into the back to snag the picnic basket. I try to pretend I’m alone instead of with a stiff wooden blockhead shadowing me as I march onto the sand in pumps that do not like sinking into the loosely shifting granules with every forceful step.
Look, I didn’t think parts of this through, okay?
But I’ve started this, so I’ll finish it.
I find a good spot where we can see the waves and the sea lions playing in the tide—but not too close that we might get chased off by one of the more aggressive beasties.