Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
“I’m so glad,” I gush. “I’ve agonized over it, and if you didn’t like it, I was gonna be so pissed.” I laugh, being honest, but also aware that’s not something I should say to him. If I hadn’t seen that quick glimpse of the man behind the stoic facade, I would’ve snatched the box back and made a run for it. Okay, maybe not, but I would’ve played the scene out in my mind a hundred times—complete with me slapping Mr. Conniver and hauling ass out of this place with a yell over my shoulder that I’d sell the ring to someone who appreciated it. Considering it’s his ring in the first place, and he’s paid me twice over for the work I’ve done, I’m pleased that little possibility didn’t happen.
“Well, I’m glad to have not angered you, then,” he replies evenly, quietly amused underneath his blasé exterior. Pretty sure that line usually goes the other way. He’s most definitely the one you don’t want to piss off.
“For the band, I’m thinking channel inlaid baguettes. Something a little harder-edged to represent you in the relationship, the way the engagement ring represents Georgina, and that together make a perfectly balanced set.”
Mr. Conniver smiles thinly as though calling him hard is a compliment. “Please go ahead with that design. I’m happy to leave it to your creativity, and I’m sure Georgina will feel the same once she sees your work. How soon can you have it completed?”
“Is there a date you have in mind?” I’m mentally already clearing my calendar for my best and most favorite client.
“Next weekend?”
My eyes bug out like one of those cartoon characters. Ah-ooo-ga! “What?”
“Friday, to be precise,” he answers, not making things any better. “We’ve waited long enough, and I’m ready to make her mine officially.”
With effort, I pull myself together. If Mr. Conniver wants a wedding band in six days, then yep, I’m your girl. Yessiree, I can make that happen. “Make it Thursday night,” I quip, shimmying my shoulders, “because why the hell not?”
He laughs lightly. “Sounds good. I’ll send someone by to collect it, if that’s acceptable? I’m afraid I’ll be otherwise indisposed.”
“Not Thomas or Mark,” Griffin, who’s been silent this whole time, now interjects.
So maybe the two guys weren’t necessarily hunting me down to cause me harm, but I have to agree with Griffin that I’d rather not deal with them for Mr. Conniver’s order, especially at my home. “That. What he said,” I agree, pointing at Griffin and nodding vehemently.
“Of course. I’ll send Junior.” He gestures to the security guard standing tableside, who is no less intimidating than Thomas and Mark but has none of the bad history they do. And when Junior dips his chin, agreeing, he even flashes me a kind smile and pats his shirt pocket like he vows to keep my work safe and secure.
“Sounds like you and me have a date Thursday night, Mr. Junior.” His smile vanishes and Griffin grunts. I chuckle, adding, “Not like that. I mean, to pick up the ring. Ugh, you guys are such Neanderthals. Grumble, grumble, grumble.” I actually grumble the word, not just make the sound to demonstrate, which applies to all of them, it seems.
“It’s part of our charm,” Mr. Conniver declares flatly. “Speaking of, it appears as though congratulations are in order,” he says, lifting his water glass in a toast as he glances from me to Griffin. Given the interested glint in his eyes, even Mob bosses who run the city and strike fear into the hearts of most enjoy a bit of drama.
“To you and Georgina too,” I say, tapping my glass to his. If he’s not spilling all his dirty details, neither am I. Fair’s fair.
After a quick sip, he says, “On that note, I’m afraid I do have other business to attend to. Please stay and have lunch as my guests.” Mr. Conniver stands, gives us a polite tilt of his head, and walks away, Junior by his side. There’s equal chance he’s off to intimidate someone into selling their soul or a ribbon-cutting ceremony with the mayor. Hell, maybe both, simultaneously.
It’s silent for a long stretch where I’m simply staring off in the direction Mr. Conniver disappeared. My eyes jump to Griffin. “I think he liked it,” I whisper-shout, attempting to be mindful of the other diners in the restaurant but mostly failing.
Griffin chuckles. “I think he loved it. How could he not? It’s your best work.”
Awww. I swear, he’s making up for all the cutting things he’s said over the years with copious compliments now. The best part is, he actually means the compliments, and he never really meant the insults.
“My best work yet,” I correct. “You haven’t seen what I have in mind for the wedding band.”
“Honestly, I think I’m your best work in progress,” he jokes, laughing at the self-deprecation.