Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“I have a very particular set of skills,” I brag.
“That’s my sister you’re talking about,” Wyatt quips automatically, and I give him a dirty look.
“Yeah, I know, asshole. Payback’s a bitch, ain’t it?” I tease, glad that he’s the one dealing with my sister now, because Hazel’s a lot on a good day. On a bad one? I’m man enough to admit that I do my damnedest to stay outta her way.
I find Wren again and track her around the room, watching her shine as she chats with people, accepting congratulations and thanks. Only then do I answer their original question. “Yeah, we’re real good actually.”
I can’t stop my smile from beaming. I probably look like a stupid, lovesick puppy, but I’m happy.
I’ve got the girl. The one I’ve obsessed over, and she’s apparently been crushing on me too. And we’re going home together tonight to fall into bed and each other.
I’ve got the job I enjoy. My guys will be back to work within days, and we’ll finish Township for Cold Springs.
I’ve got a boss who’s going to be better than Jed, hopefully. At least she seems willing to listen and didn’t fire me outright when I was brutally honest. That goes a long way in my book.
My family is all safe and content. Mom’s happy with the bakery, Etta’s happy with Puss N Boots and her horse, whose stall is clean enough that I would sleep in there without a second thought.
And Etta’s . . . talking to Mike? Fuck. I mean, fuck no. But even that bad idea can’t get me down tonight. Not when Wren is nearly floating around the room on cloud nine.
Soon, she’s with Avery and Lucy, and though she’s semismiling, I can tell they must be talking about something gross because she also seems a bit horrified.
I chuckle as she excuses herself and walks away from them with wide eyes and a face screwed up in disgust.
Only to be stopped . . . by Oliver the Asshole.
My feet start moving before my brain makes the decision, and behind me, I hear either Wyatt or Winston, not sure which, mutter, “Oh, fuck, here we go.”
But I’m not going over to start shit. Wren can talk to him, politely tell him good job on the contract, and then say goodbye because that douchewaffle’s leaving town. Tonight, if I have anything to say about it.
I don’t say a word, people just move out of my way, probably because my eyes are locked on Wren, measuring her fake smile and watching it fall by increments. Something’s wrong, and I need to get there. Now.
There’s a tall guy in my way who must mistake my mission focus for him, because he posts up and grunts, “What?”
“Move.” I push past him, bumping his shoulder with mine, not out of anger but lack of space in the crowded room. And once I get past him, I see . . .
Oliver move in to kiss Wren.
Time slows as their lips meet, his hands on her face as he tries to take the kiss deeper.
A hush falls over the room. Or at least I think it does, because the roar in my ears is so fucking loud, I can’t hear a thing. But I can sense eyes on me, and there’s suddenly plenty of room for me to move as people get the hell out of the way.
My fists are clenched at my sides, but I’m not holding back. I’m preparing.
There’s no need to, though. Right as I get close enough, Wren pulls out of his grasp, rears back, and throws a solid right cross to The Asshole’s nose. There’s a popping sound, and blood gushes everywhere, down over his mouth and dripping to his probably stupid-expensive dress shirt as he collapses forward, clutching his nose and muttering in shock.
“What the fuck are you doing? How many times do I have to tell you no? I’ve tried polite, I’ve tried blunt, and now I’m trying this.” Her voice cuts through the crowd as she reads Oliver down, and though my instinct is to step in to protect her, she doesn’t need it. She’s doing fine on her own. Better than fine actually. “Let me be clear. Our relationship was professional, only professional. You are not my type, no matter what you’d like to think. My type is the monster of a man standing behind you, holding himself back from killing you.”
Oliver’s head jerks, sending blood droplets all over Aunt Etta’s wood floor. His eyes are fear-filled as they land on me. And instead of taking the L and running, he stands up to face me.
Game fucking on. I’ve been wanting this for weeks.
But he doesn’t try to fight me. No, he shouts, “She hit me! That’s assault! You all saw her! Look at my nose!”