Total pages in book: 21
Estimated words: 19985 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 100(@200wpm)___ 80(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 19985 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 100(@200wpm)___ 80(@250wpm)___ 67(@300wpm)
I let Jules pull me to the door because I don’t know what else to do. Making a scene would be wrong, especially as an employee. And she clearly doesn’t want to be introduced further.
“Who the hell was that?” she barks when we reach the door.
“He’s a customer. Comes in every Tuesday.”
“Avery,” she sighs, gripping my shoulders. “That man looks like he eats iron for breakfast. Did you see his tattoo? Men get those in prison.”
I scoff. “You don’t know that. He said he was a security consultant—”
“And you believed him? You don’t know anything about him.”
“I know his name is Chris, he likes black coffee, and he is interested in my photography.”
I’m feeling defensive now. After all it took for me to go over there and get him to ease up and talk to me, now Jules is pulling me away and basically calling me dumb and naïve.
She’s not entirely wrong, though. I am naïve when it comes to men. I’ve never had a boyfriend or been on a real date. The only guys I talk to are the ones I’m ringing up at the store.
Still, I’m offended.
“Avery,” Jules sighs, closing her eyes before opening them and looking at me. “I need you to promise me that you won’t see this man again.”
I can see where this is headed, and I really don’t want to get into an argument with her. “Fine. I promise.” It’s a lie, but it doesn’t matter. Chris comes in every Tuesday, so I’ll just wait until next week. The next six days will be painful, though.
“Okay, let’s get out of here.”
“One second, I have to drop my apron out back,” I tell her. “I’ll meet you at the car.”
I walk quickly through the employees-only door and hang my apron up on the rack. Part of me just wants to say screw it and go back to Chris and finish our conversation. But that will just lead to Jules causing a bigger scene and me potentially losing my job.
So I walk back out front and head for the door. I expect Chris to be gone—having bailed after Jules’s spectacular scene—but just as I’m reaching for the handle, I feel his presence. I smell him.
I turn and find myself staring into those icy blue eyes. “When do you work next?” he whispers. “Tomorrow?”
I can barely breathe, but somehow manage to reply, “No, the day after. I’m off at noon.”
Something exciting flashes in his eyes, causing my body to tense and my belly to warm. “Okay, I’ll see you in two days, Avery.”
And then he’s gone. Out the back like a phantom, leaving me standing there stunned.
Okay. Now I just have to figure out what to do with myself for the next two days.
I’ve never been more excited to return to work. Because the next time I clock in, Chris will be here.
2
CHRIS
No strings. No attachments. Nothing that could potentially land you behind bars.
That’s my code. I’ve been living by it since I was first locked up at nineteen. It’s not some crap I picked up from Hollywood. It’s the reason I’m not dead or in prison.
Every guy I ever did a job with who got caught got caught because of something he couldn’t walk away from. A woman, a house, a kid. That’s not me. When you love something, it becomes a pressure point. And anyone can put pressure on that point and bring you to your knees.
Not me.
I have a rental in Pacific Beach with a month-to-month lease that I pay in cash. I’ve got a bed, a couch, and a duffel bag in the closet with fifty thousand in cash, two clean IDs, and unworn changes of clothes. I’ve got a car registered to someone that isn’t me, and I can be gone and out of town in the time it takes most people to find their keys.
That’s how I live a free life.
So why the hell can’t I stop thinking about a girl who works in a bookshop? Those thin legs, innocent eyes, and adorable voice. She wasn’t even trying to look cute, and that’s what made her devastating.
I’m in deep shit.
The warehouse sits two blocks off the 163 in a strip of industrial buildings that look like they haven’t been touched in thirty years. Danny rented it up front using a fake name and paid six months up front with cash, no questions asked. The landlord didn’t even ask for ID.
He’s sitting on an overturned milk crate when I arrive, boots up on a folding table, chowing on a breakfast burrito the size of his forearm. Marco is by the far wall, tacking fresh surveillance photos to a corkboard. Neither of them looks up as I come in through the door. We’ve been crewing together long enough that we know the sounds of each other’s footsteps.