Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 117915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 590(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117915 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 590(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
I drew my salad in front of me and picked at it with a fork. It was very… green. And very boring.
“Oh mi gawww,” Champ garbled around a mouthful of something. He fanned at his mouth with one hand and shoveled in a bite of food with the other. “Issss so haht, but ah can’t stahp ee-ing ih.”
I laughed out loud. Add ridiculously silly to the list of Percy Champion’s personalities. It was, arguably, the most devastating one of all, at least when it came to keeping my distance from him.
And ugh, the smug, smirky, sexy-as-fuck smile he shot me when he caught me laughing was like a knockout punch to my already weak defenses. “You’re regretting that salad right now, aren’t you?”
I was regretting many things at that moment. Mostly the fact that I couldn’t seem to quit myself of this man, even though I knew better, damn it.
“No,” I said primly. “Salad is nutritious, and if I eat the salad now, I can have cookies later. Always do the hard thing first, that’s what my Aunt Cherry says.”
Champ paused with a giant bite of food halfway to his mouth and stared at me pityingly. “Or you could just get rid of your arbitrary rules and eat cookies whenever you fucking want them because life is short.”
The wind kicked up, and I shivered.
I pushed my very cold salad away. “Enough chitchat. This is a team meeting, right? That’s what you said? That’s why we need privacy? Then… read me in. What is it of Tommy’s that you’re looking for, and how do you know it’s at the farm? Is it a folder of papers? A hard drive? A computer chip? A briefcase full of cash? A shipment of weapons that look like car mufflers?”
Champ reached out and snagged the waistband of my pants to haul me firmly against his side. He took off his jacket and draped it—in all its Champ-scented glory—over my shoulders, despite my sputtered protests. And he grabbed one of his plates—a plate filled with something that looked a lot like green chicken enchiladas—and plunked it down in front of me where my salad should have been.
“It’s a Horn,” he said.
“It’s a…” I looked at the enchilada. “Huh?”
“I mean the thing Tommy has. The thing I’m looking for. It’s a Horn. Like, from Horn of Glory.” When I only blinked up at him, he continued. “The video game. With squash and orcs and seeds? Huge gaming sensation currently sweeping the nation?”
“I know the game, obviously. What’s that got to do with Tommy?”
“Remember how he had that whole case of sports memorabilia off to one side of the foyer?” Champ licked salsa off his thumb in a really sexily distracting sort of way. “Well, old baseballs aren’t the only thing Tommy collects.”
Champ filled me in on the story of how Tommy had acquired a particularly rare Horn at a flea market, which lined up perfectly with the story he’d told me in the car earlier.
“And Tommy doesn’t care that the Horn was stolen because he wants it in his possession.” I found myself taking a bite of chicken enchilada without thinking about it, quickly followed by another. Holy shit, these were good.
“Correct.” Champ handed me a beer, a pleased smile on his lips as he nodded at my plate. “Knew you’d love ’em. See why being on a team is helpful?”
“Mmm. So what does Champion Security want with the Horn?”
I could practically see Champ’s walls go up.
“Want?” he repeated.
I ground my teeth together. “Yeah, not sure this whole team thing is working for me,” I informed him.
Champ grimaced. “We’re retrieving the Horn on behalf of our client, who’d like the Horn returned to them without involving the authorities. They don’t want to become embroiled in an investigation.”
“In the car earlier, you said there was a government agency out to get the thing you wanted from Tommy.” I forked up more enchilada, unable to resist it. “Why does the government want a Horn of Glory Horn? Sudden interest in the rabid orange bunnies that have been stampeding people’s homesteads, eating the Shasta daisies they bought with the entire proceeds of their last rutabaga harvest?”
Champ blinked, and I shrugged.
“I’ve maybe gone on a quest a time or thrice,” I admitted. “But why are my tax dollars being used to search for someone’s stolen Horn if the rightful owner doesn’t want the authorities involved? Unless… wait, your client is the Horn’s rightful owner, yes?”
Champ hesitated.
“You’re going to steal the Horn from Tommy and give it to someone who’s not the rightful owner?” I hissed. “What the fuck, Champ?”
Champ blew out a breath. “Look, there are things I can’t tell you. My client…”
“I have clients too!” I reminded him hotly. “Clients who are relying on me to give them a wedding they can be proud of. And yet, here I am, entertaining the idea of letting you screw us all over. Tell me what you know!”