Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 83211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Smart girl.
A 1962 Ferrari 250 GTO? Nice. I click the post and check out the pictures.
“But Banks is here,” Ashley says carefully.
It’s the way she says it that stands the hair on the back of my neck on end. I don’t have to look up to know she’s looking at me.
The energy in the room shifts, and I know the change well enough to know she’s going to ask me to do something I don’t want to do.
I slip off the stool and start toward the door.
“Maybe,” she says, her voice rising. “It won’t be that bad.” She pauses. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
I try to get out of the door before she says another word. My pace quickens—but not enough.
“Hey, Banks,” she says.
I stop in my tracks but don’t turn around. Not making eye contact helps not to get roped into stuff. “Yeah?”
“Can you do me a teeny, tiny little favor? Pretty please?” she asks.
“Do you a favor, or whoever is on the phone a favor?”
“It would technically be doing me a favor either way.”
Fuck. “So it’s not for you.”
It’s for her.
My chin tips to the ceiling. A rough exhale drains from my body in the most dramatic fashion I can muster because I know who this is for … and I definitely don’t want to do it.
She sighs. “Banks, please.”
I turn around slowly as if it’s killing me—because it kind of is—and narrow my eyes.
“She’s in a bind,” she says, frowning as if that’s going to help.
Which it will, but I’m going to hold strong until it kills me.
“Is that … Sara on the phone?” I ask, curiously.
“Yes.”
“Then no,” I say, smiling and pivoting on my heel to leave.
“Banks!”
“What?” I groan and face her again. “Call someone else. Whatever it is, call someone else to help her. I’ll even pay for it. It’ll be cheaper than the therapy I’ll have to endure after seeing her.”
“She needs help.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Oh, I know that. I rode with her all the way to Orlando and back to pick up someone’s shit when they moved in with Maddox.”
She sighs.
I sigh back at her.
We watch one another. Neither of us says a word. But Sara? Sara says lots of words, many of which can be heard through the phone dangling in Ashley’s hand from across the room.
If Sara had called and asked for my help, I wouldn’t answer. The woman is hell on wheels. She’s headstrong and thinks she knows everything. Her aversion to physical labor is astounding.
If I’m water, she’s oil—oil that hasn’t been changed in a hundred-thousand miles. And I’m basically holy water, so it’s a no-go.
But it’s not Sara who’s asking for my help. It’s Ashley. And Ashley is family.
Oh, fuck my life.
I blow out a long, hasty breath.
“I’ll let you come over for dinner tomorrow, too,” Ashley says, luring me in with her fluttery lashes.
Still, I hold strong and think it through.
Even if I put up an argument and do my best to resist her pleas for help, I’ll give in. Arguing will only delay the inevitable. At worst, Ashley will call Maddox, and he’ll call me, asking me to go. And I can’t say no to Maddox because he never says no to me.
Except for the spiders.
“Three dinners,” I say. “And movie nights with you guys every Saturday for a month.”
She grins and thrusts the phone my way.
I take it, glaring at her. It only makes her giggle.
I sigh again, just to set the stage. Can’t let Sara think I’m happy about this.
“Hi, giant pain in the ass,” I say.
“Thinking about my ass again, I see.”
This is gonna suck.
2
Sara
“I’m not any happier about this than you are,” I say, holding the door open for Banks.
My house fills with the scent of Luna Rossa Black—a sexy, masculine cologne with an energetic, almost sweet touch at the end. It’s like a glass of expensive bourbon with a side of Pop Rocks.
How do I know this? I’ve had plenty of time to dissect it. I bought a bottle after our trip to Orlando. Not that I’d ever admit that to Banks … or anyone else, for that matter.
“What have you been doing today?” He smirks. “Or maybe I shouldn’t ask you that since your vibrator is in the toilet.”
“Shut up.”
His smirk deepens, sinking the slight dimple in his right cheek that much further. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“That way.” I point toward the door down the hallway. “Did you bring tools?”
He whips a wrench out of his pocket. As he makes his way to the room in question, he holds it in the air.
God, he’s infuriating.
The past two weeks have been the most frustrating of my life, and it’s all my fault.
Screwing your boss is generally frowned upon for a reason. I get that. I accepted the risks. I crawled into Joshua Eubanks’s bed with nothing but red lipstick and black heels—no regrets … then. I’m full of regret now—that and a shot of anger that doesn’t make me feel great about myself. But if I’m one thing, it’s honest.