Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 59146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
We stood there, tangled and shuddering, for a long minute. Then he set me on my feet, bracing his hands on my hips until I was steady. He pulled up his jeans without fastening them before moving to the kitchen just to the right of us. He found a washcloth in the small laundry nook next to the kitchen and brought it to me to clean myself. Once I’d finished, I righted my jeans, sans the button.
He took the cloth and tossed it in the washer, not speaking as he did so. When he finally spoke, his voice was cool, his careful control somewhat restored. I could see the struggle in his eyes, though. This man rode the very edge of his control. The explosive sex we’d shared should have calmed him. Right? Instead, if anything, he looked worse off than he was before. “If you agree, I’ll keep a man on your shop through the weekend. I’ll leave off the tail on your car if it bothers you that much.”
I matched his flatness. “Fine. Leave the shop alone after Monday. I’ll deal with it from there.”
He backed away, tension in every line of his body. “I’ll let Zero know. You’ll see him through Monday morning. Let me know if you want more.”
I made a face, then laughed, sharp and humorless. “You’ve got this whole protection thing down to a science, huh?”
He shrugged, like it was nothing. “It’s what we do.”
“Thanks for the heads-up about Brett,” I said. “And for hauling flour this morning.”
He looked at me for a long, loaded second, then said, “No problem.” Then, quieter, like he hated the words even as they left him. “If you want to hate me for this, you go right ahead. Won’t change a damn thing I do next time either.”
I almost laughed, except it wasn’t funny, not really. “God, you’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.” He nodded toward the door, some of that terrible stillness draining out of him. If anything, he looked tired. Spent. “I still expect you to call me if you need help, Juniper. I need that from you.”
“Sure,” I said, feeling more than a little defeated and had no idea why. Probably because he let me leave without a fight. Unless the sex was the fight. Which, I guess maybe it was. I just didn’t know if I’d won, and that pretty much told me I’d lost.
The ride down the lift went slowly. Darby met me with a smile when the door opened. She took one look at my face and gave me a quizzical look. “What did he do?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Thanks for the escort.” The smile I gave her felt forced, but I needed to forestall any questioning. Because I had the feeling Darby would get any answers she needed. I also thought that maybe anything I said, Darby would lay squarely at Inferno’s feet and not mine. And I wasn’t altogether certain that was a fair assessment. “I’ve got an early morning tomorrow.” I left her and hurried through the common room before she could stop me.
The compound yard was deserted when I stepped out. The air was brisk and clean. I made it to my car, started the engine, and sat there for a second, hands shaking on the wheel.
When I drove up to the gate, it rolled up. I went through, no questions asked. Again, the guy at the gate threw his hand up at me in greeting. I checked the rearview all the way down the block, and for the first time in a week, there was nobody behind me. Not a soul.
Chapter Eight
Inferno
Knight didn’t look up when I came into his office on Monday morning. Probably because he’d locked his door and refused to let anyone in other than Lavender and Knuckles. And only when Knuckles threatened to break the door down. He hadn’t wanted to talk to me, so I’d decided today I was going to knock until he either opened it or I had to break it down.
Turned out, the door was open this morning. Knight sat at his desk with several open documents on four different screens on the wall. A coffee mug sat at his elbow, cold by the looks of it.
“Close the door,” he said. I did, then moved to stand next to him at his desk. “These went up between Friday night and Sunday morning.” He tapped the screen. “Fourteen reviews. All one star. All on the same three platforms.”
I leaned forward. The first one complained about a hair in the pastry. A vague implication that the kitchen was dirty. The second said the owner was rude and unprofessional and that the business had changed since new management had taken over. The third said the cakes were overpriced and the ingredients tasted off. I read through four more before I sat back.