Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“If you don’t move away from my wife right now, you’ll have two to match,” he threatens in that cool, even tone.
“I hear we’re going to church on Sunday?” Abbi cuts our bickering off, ending the issue by stepping out of my reach and into Henry’s. Her tone is flat. She’s not pleased with his scheming either.
Henry answers it with a smug smirk. “What’s one Sunday morning when you spent every single one there for years?”
“Because you hate the church. And it’s deceitful.”
He sighs. “They get what they want, and I get what I want. Everyone wins.”
“Sloane doesn’t,” I blurt. She’s all I care about here.
“I am not altering my entire business plan on account of the woman you’re fucking this week,” he barks, then glances around as if to make sure no one overheard him. Henry is all about image, after all. “I hear you’re taking Olivia out fishing tomorrow?”
Nice diversion. “Yeah, after golf. Can’t wait to tell her what an asshole you are.” I dig my phone out as it vibrates again.
Unknown:
You better get over here. She’s at it again.
I frown at my screen. Maybe it’s a wrong number.
Who is this?
King Kong
Someone at the hotel called the cops on us for our bonfire and they fined us. She is pissed.
Frank?
How did he get my number?
Three dots bounce, then disappear, and then a picture comes through of a colorful stack of poster board signs piled on what appears to be a shed floor.
“Oh shit.”
“What is it?” Abbi asks, worry on her face.
“Did you call the cops on Sloane for her bonfire?”
Henry’s scowl tells me it wasn’t him before he says, “As if I’d waste my time with that.”
Probably not. But I know who would.
A quick scan proves Belinda is nowhere in Seraphina’s, but there’s no way she left the hotel. “Talk to you later,” I say to Abbi.
“7:00 a.m. tomorrow at the clubhouse,” Henry chirps after me.
I throw my middle finger in the air as I walk away, not caring who sees me do it.
The pit is eerily empty. Everyone’s been working so hard leading up to this week, I’m glad they’ve gone home for the night.
I head for the executive hallway. If Belinda is hiding, it’ll be in her office.
A light glows behind the opaque glass at the end of the hall, confirming my hunch.
I march toward it, anger roiling in my veins.
I’m maybe ten feet away when I hear the rattle, the telltale repetitive thump that I recognize immediately. It could only be one thing. The female moan that carries a moment later confirms it.
Who could she be with in there? The two most likely suspects—Merrick and Preston—were at the bar when I left, so it’s not either of them. She would never bring one of the media open guests to her office to fuck. So who else …
On a hunch, I dig out my phone and dial Connor’s number.
The telltale tune of the Top Gun theme song he programmed for my number sounds from behind the glass.
I shake my head. Clearly, whatever Belinda did to him last night wasn’t enough to scare him off.
They last another thirty seconds, the grunts and moans and desk creaks increasing in tempo and fervor before the grand finale. If the ringtone didn’t give him away, the string of curses that comes with Connor unloading is a dead giveaway.
I lean against the wall as I wait for them to get dressed and emerge. It won’t be long—neither of them is the cuddling type.
“You know where to find me for next time,” Connor says, close to the other side of the glass.
“There won’t be a next time,” comes Belinda’s sharp tone.
“That’s what you said last time—oh, hey, man.” Connor pushes through the door to find me there. His hair is standing on end like Belinda had fistfuls of it, and he’s red-faced and sweaty from exertion. “You called me. What’d you need?”
“Nothin’.”
He shrugs. “Okay, see you at home?”
“Not likely.” Unless Sloane takes her anger out on me and doesn’t let me in.
“Tomorrow, then. Little Lyle’s comin’ in, right?”
Shit. I almost forgot. “Yeah, can you pick her up from the airport? I’m tied up here.” Or, more accurately, on a boat.
“Yeah, for sure. Just send me the flight deets and warn her so she knows to look out for me.”
“Later.” Right now, I need to deal with a problem. I duck into Belinda’s dimly lit office in time to see her fixing the last button on her blouse. The air stinks of perfume and sex, and paper lies scattered on the floor.
“Did you call the cops on Sloane?” I demand with no preamble. I managed to avoid Belinda all day, but I knew we’d have to do this eventually.
“I did.” She says it so matter-of-factly as she collects the condom wrapper from her desk and tosses it into the trash can.