Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 130619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130619 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
A door behind me opens, and I turn, but only halfway, unwilling to place my back to Jeremy’s door. An elderly woman with curlers in her hair pokes her head out. “If you’re another one of them reporters, he’s not home. And before you ask, I don’t know where he is.”
“Is there a landlord who might?”
“Bella Marks,” she says. “Apartment 404, but she won’t be home for a couple of hours. She works another job.”
I dip my chin her direction. “Thank you. I’ll come back.” I start walking, feeling the woman’s eyes all sticky on my back as I depart but I’m not leaving without answers. If that means I have to wait awhile, so be it. I rush across the empty street to my parked car, grab my briefcase and purse from inside, and hike toward the cute little coffee shop I’d spied earlier, roughly two blocks away. You gotta love Austin, Texas, with all its quirky mingled neighborhoods. My steps are quick, my nerves quicker, thumping faster than my feet and reminiscent of my walk to the courthouse on pretty much any given day. I’m ridiculously relieved to reach my destination. The doors chime in alert, and I wave to the barista and park myself at a table. With caffeine as my friend, I spend the better part of two hours drinking too much coffee and reading through Jeremy’s file, trying to discover what I’d missed, but I find nothing.
I’m deep in my review when my phone buzzes on the table next to me with a message from Oliver: On target to be at your place at seven. I glance at the clock on my computer. It’s already after five. How have I let so much time slip away? I’ll never hear the end of it from him if he finds out I’m not home resting, let alone that I’ve gone looking for Jeremy. I don’t reply to the text. It’s sneaky, I know, but I desperately need him to believe I’m asleep.
But I darn sure get moving.
I scoop all my files into my briefcase, bundle up, and I’m just passing the counter when a tall, thin man with glasses steps in front of me, and we collide. I gasp and almost double over as ice rips down my spine and an image of a man, this man, consumes my mind. His eyes glow yellow, and, oh my God, he’s choking a woman.
“Excuse me,” the man apologizes, his hand closing around my arm, and nausea curls in my belly. “Are you okay?”
Instinct roars with warning inside me, and I shove his hand away. “I’m fine.” I don’t say more, I don’t look at him for fear of what I might see, or maybe not see. I’m beginning to think I’m a loon—the crazy one. I race for the door and fumble with the handle before charging into a much warmer evening—such is the joy of ever-changing Texas weather in December—only to stumble from dizziness. My briefcase slides from my arm, and one of my folders crashes to the ground, papers scattering.
God, why am I this much of a mess? I am a master at handling stress, and yet I didn’t even zip my briefcase. I kneel to gather my papers at the same time a man squats down to help me. Suddenly, I’m staring into pale blue, almost translucent, eyes. Crystal blue eyes. The same color I see every time I look in a mirror.
“Are you okay?” he too asks me. It’s the question of the day, it seems, but it feels different coming from him over the yellow-eyed man. He feels different. As ridiculous as it would sound if I said it out loud, I can almost feel the deep baritone of this man’s voice melting the ice the other man created inside me.
“Better than yesterday,” I say, and his eyes are freaking me out a bit, and so is the fact that he’s really ridiculously good-looking. His hair is longish and a rich raven shade with hints of amber. His cheekbones are finely chiseled, his jawline sharp, and his lips…he possesses the kind of brutal mouth a girl wants on her body. Of course, most women would flirt with him, but I’m squatting on the ground while he stares at me, probably wondering why I’m still squatting on the ground. I’m polished in the courtroom, but apparently step me into a coffee shop and I fall apart. I grab one of my files and stuff it in my bag. He picks up the remaining file and offers it to me.
I stare down at it, but I swear I tremble inside at the fear of accepting it and somehow touching him. I don’t want to know he’s one of them, whatever that means. I set my bag on the ground, and, my God, I’m losing it. My hands are shaking.