Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94678 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
It isn’t, but tell me one man who is smart while living without a heart?
After sitting behind my desk, I take another mouthful of the burning liquid I keep hidden in my desk drawer, not bothering with a glass.
Guilt-erasing chugs don’t require formalities.
I’ve not once intentionally set out to hurt Emerson, not even after she left me, but I don’t feel confident declaring that anymore. I feel like I broke her heart, like I betrayed the memories that have kept me alive for the past ten years.
The whiskey scald hitting the back of my throat distracts me from the confusion swirling in my gut, but it does little to replace the security footage I watched earlier of Emerson leaving Zelenolsk Manor an hour after waking from replaying in my head.
Her eyes were somewhat wet, but there was a fire in them I’ve not seen in a decade. A fire that was once only able to be extinguished with hours beneath the sheets.
My teeth grit when my cock hardens at the thought of being her extinguisher of choice. I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. Love is like a drug. Rational thoughts are nonexistent under its influence, and bad choices seem plausible.
When I lower the almost empty whiskey bottle, the edge clanks against my mouse, firing up my computer monitor. I never use passwords, so access to the emails I was scrolling earlier is immediate.
My dislike of delayed gratification meant Emerson always took off her panties as the last call for drinks was yelled across the bustling pub her family owned.
While trying to make out she didn’t enter my thoughts for the umpteenth time this evening, my bleary eyes scan a recently received email.
The more I read, the more my blood boils. The email announces the cancellation of the order I placed while waiting for Emerson at her family’s church for the second time in my life. The cause states the purchase is no longer needed.
How fucking dare they!
I push back on my chair harder than intended. The bang of its crash into the wall is half the wallop my office door does when I throw it open.
Waitstaff glance up when I enter the main hub of the bar, but I ignore them, uncaring if they think I’m a grumpy cunt. They don’t understand what I’m going through. They will never understand, because I’ve only ever given them a fraction of the man I am when I’m with Emerson. The bare minimum.
Disgust gnaws at me as I walk past numerous patrons eyeing me with zeal, but I shove it down, refusing to acknowledge them or my once go-to coping mechanism.
Losing myself in a bevy of heavy-breasted women isn’t the solution to my predicament. I have no clue what the solution is, but I know that isn’t it.
I find Lynx, my operations manager, toward the end of the bar, serving patrons.
“I told you I wanted the electrostatic precipitator installed no later than the end of the month, so why the fuck was my order canceled?”
Lynx knows me better than anyone does. He’s been on my payroll since my inaugural year, and we’ve been friends even longer than that, but going above my head like this is outside of his pay scale.
Lynx hits a generous-tipping patron with a flirty wink before cranking his head my way. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t cancel anything.”
“The electrostatic precipitator that was to be installed in the Lidny pub next weekend.” My voice is harsh, and my temper is frayed. “Someone canceled it.”
His laughter frays my mood further. “It wasn’t me. I’m not fucking stupid. I don’t want to die.”
“Then who canceled it?” I can’t think of a single person dumb enough to go against me when it comes to something like this.
Except perhaps one.
The air dampens with an incoming storm as the hairs on my nape prickle. I peer past Lynx, my body’s awareness of its mate’s closeness still strong despite the amount of alcohol I’ve forced through my veins over the past thirty hours, just as the voice from my dreams floats through my ears. “That would be me.”
Emerson is at the end of the bar, mixing cocktails and pulling beers like she owns the place. Her presence commands the attention of everyone in the space, and she has a lineup of patrons desperate to be served by her.
Shockingly, not all of them are male.
She is a girlie girl as much as she is a sexpot.
Tension spikes when our eyes lock, and electricity courses through my body. I should hate how her presence instantly places my defenses on the back foot, but I don’t.
I can’t let her know that, though, or she will eat me alive. Instead, I try to downplay her craved yet unexpected arrival, certain it will end in disappointment.
I lost count of the number of hours I wasted watching the entry doors of this very club, awaiting her arrival.