Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99017 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Ignoring the voice in my head that says it’s tacky to use a friend to make your boss jealous, I text Plato the address and directions, warning him to come straight in the side door by the garage and up the stairs in the back, and that I’ll be waiting for him with popcorn and peanuts, his preferred hacking snacks.
On the way home, I swing into the gas station for energy drinks with bull semen in them, the kind that keep me sharp for hours, but I still have plenty of time to get changed into my PJs before Plato taps at my door.
I open it, revealing my friend in his usual GQ apparel, the stuff that makes him look like a model leaving a photo shoot, and smile. “No one would ever suspect that you’re a dark web mastermind.”
He grins, his brown eyes flashing. “You don’t know the half of it. Wait until I show you what I found on Sunday after you left my place. I think we’ve got a name.” He glances around. “Aw, cute crib. I like the wallpaper.”
My eyes go wide. “A name? What? You’re kidding me!” I thump his shoulder as he moves past me to the couch. “Why didn’t you tell me?!”
He laughs as he settles in. “I’m telling you now. And I know you don’t have time to work on this kind of stuff during the week. I didn’t want to get you all excited and leave you hanging.”
“Probably wise,” I say as I close the door, doing my best not to think about Dean, who has zero problems getting me excited and leaving me hanging.
For the next few hours, I’m determined to forget about Dean.
To forget about everything except tracking down the man who hit my car and wrecked my body. Closing this shitty chapter with some much-needed justice would feel so good. Beatrice and I deserve an apology from this jerk, if nothing else. And I, for one, would like to see Blue compensated for the medical bills he insisted on paying. My insurance covered everything after my five thousand dollar deductible, but Blue took care of the initial expenses and the copays for extra physical therapy.
Hoping that a man who stole the truck he used in a hit-and-run has the cash to cover the damage he caused is probably a long shot, but a girl can dream.
About things like that, at least.
But you can be damned sure I’ll be doing my best not to dream about anything other than justice tonight, certainly not my lying, sneaky, heart-breaking boss.
He really did break my heart a little.
My chest ached all the way home…
It’s still aching as I plop down next to Plato, ready to feed him popcorn while he puts his brilliant hacker hands to work on my behalf.
Seventeen
DEAN
I’m stalking my nanny.
Is it still considered stalking if you’re doing it from inside your own home?
I’m not sure, but it probably is, and it’s definitely fucked up.
But that isn’t enough to make me step away from the window.
I just keep standing here like a creep, holding a warm third beer I haven’t opened—three beers would be one beer too many on a night alone—watching the street. Even though I know she probably won’t be home until midnight, maybe later if she goes out for a drink with her friends from the band after the bar closes.
Which she should.
She should go out, have fun, be young.
And I should go to bed. I should have been in bed an hour ago. The girls are out cold upstairs, and I promised to have chocolate chip pancakes ready before they wake up tomorrow. And those two wake up early, even on lazy Sundays.
I should be getting my beauty sleep, God knows I need it. Since last weekend, I’ve slept like shit, and it shows.
Instead, I stand at the window with the lights off, rehearsing a conversation I can’t have tonight.
I can’t, I really can’t.
Because every time I get to the part where I tell Clover—I put in for emergency leave so I can find another childcare arrangement—the next thing out of my imaginary mouth is—Because I can’t stand within three feet of you without getting hard. I’m hard for you all the fucking time. I think about fucking you all the fucking time. I’m a sick, twisted, piece of shit employer. I wish I weren’t, but I am, and so…you have to go.
And that’s not a thing I’m allowed to say out loud.
Even though I’m guessing she has an idea how I feel. Since the hallway at Packy’s, the sexual tension in the house has been off the damned charts. I’m honestly surprised we haven’t accidentally set something on fire…
I’m thinking about how much I want to set something on fire with Clover—preferably my bedsheets—when headlights swing across the yard.