Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
When he stood to his full height, he exhaled, turning his attention to the lieutenant who hadn’t gone to search the flats. “It’s time the MacKenzies became intimate with the Resnov credo: ‘Touch what’s mine and the funeral home becomes rich.’ ”
I clawed at Simeon’s forearm. “Wait. Wa—”
1
NATASHA
Pop would break Lachlan MacKenzie’s money-making Dodger legs, and every one of those perfect, million-dollar batter fingers if he knew Lach stood me up tonight.
Good thing Pop didn’t know.
I’d given Pop and Momma Christmas Day in Rublyovka—Russian Hollywood—and would fly out before midnight. Tomorrow belonged to family.
Christmas Eve night? Well, it didn’t belong to Santa.
I stood at the center of a grand hotel lobby in Manhattan. One hand rested on the camera bag at my side, the other gripping my phone like it owed me answers. “Where are you?” I murmured under my breath.
This wasn’t just another trip. I flew to New York to give him one last chance. And then when promotions required it … and I hadn’t seen him, I agreed to meet him here at this hotel. Okay, if all else fails … I’ve taken photos of Christmas Eve in Times Square.
All else fails?
No. It would be Lach.
Again.
He was the only disappointment that mattered to me.
The screen lit up.
My thumb hovered over the Accept button. His face smiled back at me—those intense, tropical green-blue eyes. That confident smirk, powerful jaw. A lethal combination of all-American athlete and Scottish mischief. It wrecked me.
The call went to voicemail.
Stupid. I know. I’d spent Christmas Eve day alone, then I didn’t answer?
Ugh. I always answered. Always available since we started seeing each other two summers ago, after we'd met during the Christmas holiday season prior. While part of me had loved him too much before he even said hello, another part of me craved this. The waiting. To always run to him when he called.
His call dropped.
A text popped up.
LACH: Don’t do me like that, love. Answer your phone.
A reluctant smile cracked across my face, warming something deep in me that had no business burning hot.
ME: No.
For once, I’d be that girl. Untouchable. Chased by men instead of the girl who rearranged her world for a maybe. It was easier to be bold from behind a screen—where he couldn’t hear the lilt of anticipation in my voice or see me breathless.
LACH: Okay. Room 1512. Merry Christmas.
ME: Not happening.
Okay. That was a lie. Because I was absolutely going, even though I told him I’d meet him at the hotel, and we’d exit said hotel for the evening.
LACH: Trust me?
Those two words. I inhaled slowly, my chest expanding against the cashmere dress. Truth? I knew everything about this man. His stats. That nasty video of him from his early days with the Dodgers. Super scandalous. Excessive camera angles. I hadn’t watched it with the rest of the female population. But it existed. That … very long video.
Still, the question lingered. I groaned, “Do I trust me?”
LACH: Don’t talk to yourself.
My head snapped up. I glanced around. Marble walls. Christmas trees with humongous ornaments every step of the way.
LACH: Don’t look around either. Just come to my room. Because if you leave looking that good, I will find you.
ME: First of all. Super incriminating text messages.
I pressed send. Chewed my lip and fished for more snark.
LACH: Second? Cmon Tasha. When you say first of all with that cute attitude you gotta follow it up.
Every time I read the words my room I got anxious. Hot. Bothered.
ME: Don’t bait me. You don’t get a second.
LACH: Stop playing thumb wars. Get up here.
ME: If you shuddup, I’ll meet you.
LACH:
I shook my head, smoothing the curve-hugging dress draped off one shoulder and pooled at my ankles. My three-inch heels clicked across the marble floor. Three inches was all I could handle. Barely. I’d worn them for him.
Each step toward the elevator tightened the knot in my stomach. As the doors closed behind me, I distracted myself by replaying Lachlan’s stats—his batting average, his spring training numbers. World Series plays. I knew them all. Most girls didn’t like baseball. I did. It was the one safe place I could retreat to when things got hot.
Literally.
Because every time I thought of Lach, my body betrayed me.
The elevator swooshed open and added to how I ached, all over. On the top floor were two doors. Classy. Private.
I took a steadying breath.
The door opened. And there he stood.
Lachlan MacKenzie. All six-foot-three of sun-kissed muscle and low-key swagger. Shirt sleeves rolled up. Forearms inked. Blond fauxhawk tousled, like he’d just walked off a magazine cover. Tall. Built like a dream. It wasn’t the way he watched me like art and an answer to everything in between that brought me to my knees. It was the grin for me. Yep. Made me want to sin.
But I could not.