Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 24601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 98(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
Roger Burkett certainly didn't while I worked for him. He had a whole list of rules I was expected to follow, like being invisible and never speaking to him or his guests. I almost forgot what it was like to be treated like a human.
Gunner ducks out, then Blaze places his hand on my lower back, ushering me down the hall. I try to step away, but he just stays right beside me, his hand a heavy weight against the small of my back.
"In here," he says, opening a door.
I balk in the doorway. "This is a bedroom, not a bathroom, Blaze." Judging by the infuriatingly sexy scent of the room, it's his. It smells just like him—all manly and hot and outdoorsy.
"I know." His lips curve. "The bathroom is through that door right there. You can shower in there."
"Isn't there a different one I can use?"
"Nope."
I have a feeling he's lying, but he doesn't give me time to call him out on it before he's striding across the room, pulling stuff out of the dresser.
"Here." He shoves a pile of clothes into my hands. "You can wear these."
I eye him sideways. "What makes you think I'm going to fit into your clothes?" On a good day, I can squeeze into a size twenty. It's been a while since I had one of those days. He's probably never been overweight in his life. He's tall and…whatever you call it when someone looks like they could probably fight Godzilla and not immediately die a horrible death.
"Baby." I swear, that smirk is deadly. "You'll fit just fine. We'll get you some of your own things later."
"I have my own things," I grumble.
"Where?"
I hesitate, not sure I'm prepared to tell him my story. But who the hell else am I going to tell it to? It's not like anyone else is listening. In this world, men like Roger get to write the narrative, and the rest of us just suffer the consequences. If you have enough power or wealth, the truth doesn't really matter, not when people mistake charm for integrity every single day.
"Roger Burkett's house," I say, clutching the pile of clothes to my chest. "But I'm not allowed to go back there to get any of my stuff."
"Roger Burkett," Blaze says. "The financier?"
I nod, staring at the floor.
"You're dating that prick?" he growls.
"Yuck. No." I make a face. I'd rather fuck a cactus, thank you very much. "I was his maid."
"Why can't you go back, Calamity?"
I narrow my eyes at him, annoyed by the nickname, but he just twirls a finger like he's telling me to get on with it.
Maybe I don't like him very much, after all.
"He filed a police report accusing me of stealing jewelry worth thirty thousand dollars from him," I say, my voice shaking.
"I see. And how long ago was this?"
"Last week."
"You've been on the run for a week?"
There's a tightness—a hardness—to the question that catches my attention. I lift my gaze to find his jaw locked tight, his expression thunderous.
"I didn't do it!" I cry, tears welling in my eyes. I shouldn't have told him. Now, he thinks I'm a thief, just like everyone else does. It's nothing new. I've been looked at the same way for most of my life. It happens when your father was an actual thief. But I'm not him. "I swear, I didn't do it. He hid them somewhere to file an insurance claim. I think he's done it before. Please, don't call the sheriff."
Blaze closes the distance between us, yanking me into his arms. "Easy, Morgan. Easy," he murmurs, his lips at my ear. "I'm not calling anyone. I believe you."
I blink watery eyes, my lips parting in shock. "What?"
He tips my head back, meeting my gaze. "I believe you."
"But…"
He groans, his lips brushing mine. The kiss is soft, quick, but I feel it in my bones, liquefying them.
"You may be a wild pain in the ass, but you aren't a thief, Morgan," he rasps. "You'd make a terrible fucking criminal."
"I could be a good criminal," I protest, sniffling. I don't even know why I'm arguing about this. He just brings it out of me. He says something, and I automatically want to say the opposite. I don't know why!
He chuckles and then groans, pressing his lips to mine again.
"Stop kissing me."
"You don't really want me to stop."
I think he might be right, but my life is a mess. I have no job, no home, next to no money, and I'm probably headed to prison for a crime I didn't commit. The last thing I need is a bossy cowboy, who I just met, complicating things further.
The last thing he needs is me complicating his life. He has a good thing going for him here. I have a sad string of short-term jobs and big dreams that haven't quite come true yet.