Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 443(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
This is a dig at my six-year absence, obviously. But I let the taunt slide and force a smile. “It has, Ike. It has.” The words come out wearier than intended, but the tone isn’t entirely false.
Ike lets go of my hand, immediately directing his attention to Clover. “And you must be the infamous Hattie Miller.” His eyes slide back to me. “You never mentioned how beautiful your hunter was, Riggs.” He chuckles. Looks back at Clover. “I wouldn’t mind having you on my tail.”
Clover, having been brought up with manners, puts on a flawless customer-service face and offers her hand. Not in handshake. Fuck that. Clover is both Southern and rural, so it’s one of those limp finger offerings that concludes with the kissing of knuckles.
To my surprise, Ike actually does this. He takes Clover’s hand in his and, without breaking eye contact, gently brushes his lips across said knuckles.
I lean back a little, slightly repulsed. But Clover suddenly transforms into someone I don’t quite recognize. She bows her head, averts her eyes, and does a little curtsy.
And I’ve got to say, I’m a little bit annoyed that Ike Monroe is the man who coaxed this response out of her instead of me. The worst thing is, his internal ugliness has nothing to do with his outside appearance. In fact, Ike Monroe kinda looks like a Viking. Very tall—at least six-three—and while his blond hair isn’t as long as it was the last time we met, it’s tousled and sloppy in a lion’s-mane kind of way.
I’ve never seen him wearing anything but black leather and denim. Like he’s some kind of biker gang leader. But tonight, he’s in a casual cream-colored suit. Something very Disciple, which surprises me, since that place reeks of his archnemesis, Collin Creed.
Who, quite frankly, is my archnemesis too.
So there’s a sort of paradigm shift happening in my brain, and, unfortunately, this shift looks good on him. I think Clover is as surprised as I am at how easily all our preconceived notions of Ike Monroe could be shattered in less than thirty seconds.
“Nice to meet you,” Clover says, recovering from her curtsy.
“You as well, Miss Miller.” He’s still holding on to her hand, but he takes a step back like he wants to get a better look at her. “I was expecting something more…”
When he falters for words, Clover attempts to set him at ease by filling them in. “Hardy? Robust? Muscular?”
Which makes Ike bellow out a laugh. Practically a guffaw.
“Come on,” I mutter. “It wasn’t that funny.” But neither of them are paying any attention to me.
In fact… are they staring into each other’s eyes?
I slip an arm between them, breaking the moment. “Yes. She’s quite something, isn’t she, Ike? Hattie and I have known each other our whole lives.”
“I’ve heard,” Ike says, not looking at me. His eyes are still locked with Clover’s. Now he points at her. “You know what I like about you, Hattie?”
“You don’t even know her,” I scoff. “How could you like anything?”
Clover shoots me a warning with her eyes, then trains them right back on Mr. Viking here. “Never mind him. He’s still bitter about how it all turned out.”
My mouth actually drops open, and I want to grab her arm and pull her away. But Ike steals my move and the next thing I know, they’ve turned their backs on me and are walking across the room.
I take a deep breath. It’s fine. She’s nothing to you. In fact, she’s your prisoner so you should just let it go and… I head to the bar. Get a shot of tequila, down it, then get another one and down that too.
Ike Monroe. What the hell does she think she’s doing? She’s gonna blow it. She’s gonna ruin everything.
But as the minutes tick off, I realize she’s not gonna blow it. She’s actually having a conversation with him. Ike takes her around, introducing her, and there’s a moment of panic here that someone will recognize her—as either Clover, or as not-Hattie. So I have an urge to go save her.
But this recognition doesn’t happen, so neither does my saving.
It makes sense, I guess. That no one recognizes her. Clover said she moved out of Disciple for college, which was a decade ago, at least. A couple of years before Ike Monroe was officially in charge down here. And no one this far away from Kingfisher Flats knows what Hattie looks like. Her identity, when she’s up here hunting defectors, is a secret.
This whole charade is actually working.
So why am I so pissed off about that?
I drink a little more, notice that Clover is also drinking, and by the time the party starts winding down, she’s well on her way to tipsy.
It’s time to go.
She and Ike are in a crowd of people—mostly men, I notice. And all of them, even the women, are gawking at Clover like she’s some shiny thing they all need to get a piece of.