Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 40942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 136(@300wpm)
“Yes, but I’m going to have to ask you to vacate the apartment.”
Shock filled her. What?
“Why?”
“Because of the noise. I told you I couldn’t have any noise. My birds are very sensitive to noise.”
“What noise?” she asked.
“All that racket you were making this morning with the alarm.”
“It was the smoke alarm. I burned my casserole.”
“Smoke? There was a fire?” he asked, sounding alarmed.
Shit. Why had she said that?
“There was no fire,” she replied hastily. “It was just smoke.”
“Is there damage? There has to be damage.” He shook his head. “No, no. I can’t have you living here. You might set the whole building on fire. You need to be out by the end of the week.”
“You . . . you can’t do that! I have nowhere to go.” Panic bubbled in her stomach.
This was the worst thing that could’ve happened to her.
“Should have thought of that before you tried to set the building on fire,” he grumbled before shuffling away.
She leaned against the door frame, her legs weak.
What was she going to do now? She didn’t want to have to go back to living in her car.
But it seemed that was rapidly becoming her only choice.
This day just kept getting worse and worse.
Stafford glanced down at the address on her application and up at the building. He didn’t come into Frogmore a lot and he wasn’t familiar with this area. The building was rundown, but it looked like it had once been a large, grand house.
He walked past a rusty old car parked next to the footpath.
Wait. That was her car.
He hadn’t taken a good look at it before, but now that he was, he didn’t like what he saw.
The tires appeared to be bald. There was rust everywhere. Was it even safe to drive?
Frowning, he walked up to the front door and knocked.
An older man with black hair opened the door and scowled at him. “What do you want?”
“I’m looking for Blakely.”
The older man eyed him suspiciously. “Who’re you?”
“Is she home?”
“I’m not her damn butler. Her apartment is upstairs. But she’s not supposed to have visitors.”
What?
“Why not?”
“House rules. My house. My rules.”
Ahh. He was beginning to understand. “You own the house and rent her an apartment?”
“Not for long. Go around the back. There are stairs.”
The door shut in his face.
What did he mean? Not for long?
None of your business. You’re just here to return her sweater.
He should have gotten one of his workers to do this, but he’d wanted to check in on her. She’d looked so upset as she’d run out of the house.
So here he was, walking up a set of rickety stairs that had seen better days to deliver her sweater.
He knocked on the door, and there was silence. Okay, perhaps he should just leave it out here. But the image of her upset face was burned in his brain.
He’d just try one more time.
This time, he heard someone moving before the door opened. Her eyes were swollen and red, her cheeks blotchy, and she was hunched over with a blanket around her shoulders.
She looked like she had the weight of the world weighing her down.
Was this just about a broken teacup and a grouchy old man?
“I’m packing! What do you . . . oh, sorry. I thought you were Mr. Brandt,” she said.
Stafford frowned. Packing? “Is that the grouchy old man downstairs?”
“Um, yeah. You met him, then?”
“Yes, he seems delightful. Why are you packing? What did he mean that you’re leaving soon? Are you moving into another apartment?”
She blinked at him. “Um, what are you doing here?”
Okay. He didn’t actually have the right to ask her those questions, he guessed.
Maybe you would if you were her boss.
“I brought back your sweater.”
He held it out to her.
“Oh, thanks.”
She reached for it, but he suddenly snatched it back. “What the fuck is wrong with your hands?”
Um.
He seemed really mad. About her hands? Why would he be angry about her hands?
Still, she put them behind her back for good measure since she didn’t like the way he was staring at them.
“You lied to me,” he growled.
She had?
“I, uh, I . . . thanks for my sweater. You can just leave it there.” She reached for the door to shut it, but he held out his hand to stop her.
“Wait!”
She sucked in a breath, staring up at him. What was he doing? Should she be worried?
“Look, I don’t want to frighten you, but I would like to know what’s wrong with your hands. Have you hurt them?”
“I, um, they’re fine.”
“They’re not fine,” he replied firmly. “I saw you wince several times at the ranch. And when I asked you what was wrong, you lied to me.”
Why did she feel the need to squirm and apologize?
He sounded so stern. Like he was about to tip her over his lap and . . . whoa.