Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
“Me too,” she says quietly, in a small voice that hardly feels like my Elodie. I pull back, meet her gaze. Her eyes are shining with tears. “He mentioned Amanda.”
I breathe fire. No. Just fucking no. There’s nothing gentle in my voice as I ask, “Are you serious?”
A tear rolls down her cheek, then another as she nods. “He didn’t threaten her. But he wanted me to know he knew her name.”
But that’s a threat in its own terrible way. Fact is, that asshole threatened me too when he showed up here the first night. “Like he did last week when he wanted me to know he’d looked me up,” I grit out, my jaw ticking. My entire body is a high tension wire.
“He’s onto us, Gage. Everything we’ve been building in a few short weeks and he’s just going to upend it?” Her voice is quavering. “We’re not famous. Not even close. But he could do something. He knows we’re faking it. He knows we’re not really engaged.”
“I know,” I mutter, so damn frustrated that the guy has something on us. I’ve got to find a way out of this mess. I’ve got to help her.
“We’ve got all this attention on the shop,” she continues, sounding desperate. “We’re being written up and talked about. We’re being featured. Felix has said there’s more business to the hotel thanks to us. What if that all goes down the drain? All Sebastian has to do is plant the seed of doubt and he could ruin what we’ve built.”
Not if I can help it. I shake my head. Grip her shoulders fiercely. “I won’t let him.”
“How can we stop him?” she asks, like she doesn’t think I can fix this.
But I can. I know exactly what pitch to throw to strike him out.
A crooked smile tips my lips. “Marry me.”
27
FASTEN YOUR SEATBELTS FOR TAKEOFF
Elodie
Don’t get me wrong—TSA pre-screen is one of life’s greatest inventions. But why does it have to be more crowded than regular security on a Sunday morning at five-thirty? We’ve been trudging through this line for forty-five minutes already, and my nerves are frayed as thin as my cuticles.
I check my phone for the departure time. Again.
Gage peers around the coil of bleary, annoyed travelers ahead of us, trying to get a view of the checkpoint. “We should be fine. We still have forty minutes,” he says reassuringly, but all I can think is forty minutes to back out, forty minutes to walk away.
I haul in a big breath. “So, this will just be for—”
But before I can even recap the rules of this marriage of convenience one more time, the line starts flowing. Suddenly, we’re moving along, then we’re showing IDs to a sturdy TSA agent. With eagle eyes, she stares down at Gage’s driver’s license, then back up. Down, up.
My pulse gallops.
What is it? Does his face not match the ID? I try to check his license to figure out the issue. I catch a glimpse of his middle name, but I don’t even have a second to ask him about it because the agent’s suddenly satisfied, dismissing him and nodding to me. “Next,” she barks.
I stick mine out at her. She gives a serious perusal. My stomach churns. Has my license expired?
No, of course not. But I feel like it has.
A nod my way, then a gravelly, “Next.”
All business, Gage urges me over to the security checkpoint he’s picked, reaching for my purse. I hand it to him and he sets it on the conveyor belt with a chill that I simply don’t possess. I don’t get how he can be so…calm when I’m so frazzled.
My purse slouches onto his neatly folded leather jacket. Even his jacket looks cool, while my bag is chaos as they trundle away.
I hustle through the scanner, then out the other side, but right when I’m grabbing my phone and purse from the belt, he’s pulled aside for a random screening.
“Are you kidding me?” I mutter.
But there’s no joking at security.
Five minutes later, his hands have been wiped down, his jacket scanned, and his tablet confirmed unthreatening. He tips his forehead to the row of departure screens as announcements ring out overhead.
“The international terminal is this way. The flight to JFK is now boarding. Please don’t leave your luggage unattended.”
I check for our flight, my shoulders dropping. “They changed gates.”
“It’s at the end of the concourse,” he says. “And it’s boarding.” His eyes travel quickly to my shoes. Converse sneakers today. “Can you run?”
No. God no. Running is awful. “Of course,” I say, then he grabs my hand and we’re trotting through crowds, weaving through parents tugging toddlers and couples in sweats wearing neck pillows.
As we race toward the last gate at the end of the concourse, I’m certain this is how I’ll die. My lungs are staging a mutiny. My thighs are screaming obscenities at me.