Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“I thought you parted on good terms.”
“Doesn’t mean we were meant to be best friends.”
She gives a heavy-sounding sigh. “I hear that. Why do we make life so complicated?”
Doesn’t have to be, the devil suggests. I could make it so easy. So easy.
“Working with your ex must be a nightmare.”
“It has its perks, especially as I’m his dirty little secret.” She slides me a speaking glance. “And I don’t hate seeing the fear on his face when I coast a little close to the C-suite offices.”
“No?” I say with a chuckle.
“Oh, how his flat butt must pucker.”
“There’s a thought I’d like to bleach from my brain. Ex or not, he must be a massive fucknut if he’s not doing anything to stop what’s going on. It’s harassment, plain and simple.”
She makes a careless gesture before her grip tightens on my arm. “Next time, I’ll find somewhere that isn’t run by dinosaurs.”
But her attitude is suspiciously blasé, I decide, as we fall quiet again.
A car honks at a set of lights, and a group of squealing girls piles out of an Uber as, across the street, a guy in hot pants and a sequined T-shirt belts out a song from West Side Story.
“He feels pretty, and I feel pretty awful for bringing you into this. But honestly, I don’t need your protection,” she repeats. “I fight my own battles.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I say with a rueful chuckle. The way she accosted me, then hammered me, thinking I was Cuddle Carl. How she pivoted and hung on—come hell or high water, she wasn’t giving up her plan. She’s got buckets of pluck, and I like that about her.
Like not only that about her.
“Good, because it’s true.”
“Back in the pub,” I begin, “when you found out I wasn’t Cuddle Carl, I could’ve been anyone. I might be anyone—a murderer for all you know.”
“Do you know what makes a good trader?”
“The ability to make money, I imagine.”
“And how we do that is through instinct. I have excellent instincts.” Twin flames of determination flare in her gaze. “So no, I didn’t choose just anyone. In fact, the point that you are who you are—that you do what you do—kind of proves my point, don’t you think?”
“Chosen,” I repeat flatly. “I feel special.”
“Oh so special?”
“Careful, or you’ll have me borrowing that fella’s sparkly T-shirt.”
“You’re already pretty.”
“Thanks,” I say with a gruff chuckle.
“But a murderer?” She makes a dismissive gesture. “I could see you as a hit man.” Her amused gaze slides my way again, slides over me. Neck. Chest. But not quite brazen enough to dip lower. “An assassin, maybe.”
“I’m more like the victim.” I send her a pointed look, which she’s careful to miss.
“A spy with that James Bond swag.”
I give a soft snort, thinking back to what Fin said. “When you think about it, Bond can’t be much of a spy when he introduces himself to the bad guys at every opportunity.”
“You’d be like him.”
“An idiot?”
“The kind of assassin who only kills bad guys.”
“If you say so.” She’s so willfully oblivious, I’m impressed.
“You’ve got the look.” Her next glance my way bears an edge of coquetry. “Tall, dark, and mysterious.”
“Are you flirting with me?” It feels like she is as her heels clip-clip against the pavement to keep time with my regular strides. But she’s in the driver’s seat, and I’m just along for the ride. I kind of like that too.
“Just paying you a compliment. If we’re judging books by covers, I’m saying you look like you’re an expert of some kind. Dangerous. Confident. You might kill for a living. But you’d be a hit man with a heart. This is fate, Matt. You were meant to be by my side tonight.”
I say nothing, mainly because I’m more like her pawn than her savior. But something tells me Ryan doesn’t play damsel in distress very often, so maybe I should be flattered.
“You haven’t asked what I think about you, aside from your balls of steel.”
She pulls a face. “I’m almost afraid to hear more.”
I give a low chuckle. “Now, that I don’t believe.”
“The hotel isn’t very far,” she says, changing the conversational direction.
“Yeah, I know where the Pierre is.”
“Do you live in Manhattan?” There’s an edge of discomfort in her question.
I fight a frown. “I’m only here for the wedding. For the weekend.”
“Really?” Was that surprise or gladness? “All the way from Ireland?”
I give a noncommittal shrug.
“It’s a long way to come for an ex’s wedding.”
“Yeah, I’m nice like that.” Fuck. I’m even saying it about myself now.
“You’re sure it wasn’t a Hail Mary?”
“I object, you mean?” I pull a face. “Nah. What about you—you live here?”
“Lower East.”
So much for being able to pay me well. I mean, all housing is expensive in Manhattan, but the Lower East Side is no view of the park.