Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 124574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 623(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 623(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
Me. A lot.
And then going to sleep in his arms.
And waking up in them. He said goodbye at my door, only because he had a meeting and because Heath was sitting in his car outside, ready to commence his duties. I’d instructed him to become invisible when Polly was around. Like that was possible with a man who looked like him, and a girl like Polly who sniffed out troublesome hot guys like catnip.
And Heath was trouble.
I hoped he was good at his job.
“You can’t keep her in the dark about this forever, Snow,” Keltan murmured at my door.
I hoisted my bag on my shoulder before closing and locking the door. “Yeah I can. I’ve done it before,” I told him.
He eyed me. “But your dad isn’t currently roaming around L.A. endangering your life.” He referenced the thing I’d told him during the earlier stages of this. About my father and how Polly didn’t know Pete wasn’t our biological one. That she’d never know.
“It may not be the exact same,” I said as we waited for the elevator.
Keltan’s fingers intertwined with mine, and I didn’t hesitate to do the same. I wasn’t a hand-holding kind of person, but things changed.
And I was okay with that.
“But my life is barely in danger,” I told him as we stepped inside.
“Fuck, Lucy. Are you really that blind to the murder you walked in on? To the man you witnessed?” he seethed.
I rolled my eyes. “The alpha male has already pissed on this particular territory.”
He yanked me to his chest. “Well it seems we have to stay in this particular territory until you understand,” he rasped. “This is serious. This is more than a story. More than a murder. This is more than anything because it involves you and other shit that’s going to endanger my stillness. I’m not letting that shit happen. I can’t stop you from investigating this story, but I’m gonna make sure you keep breathing the entire time you do it, and for a long fuckin’ time after. Preferably forever. If not, at least until I suck in my last breath,” he declared, circling the column of my throat delicately.
The elevator doors opened and I didn’t even notice.
The sun could fall from the sky and I likely wouldn’t notice.
“But you need to help me out, baby. Take care. Caution. Realize what this is. And don’t take any fuckin’ risks with your breath. Or mine.”
I swallowed, unable to suck in any of the breath he was talking about at that juncture.
“Okay” was all I’d been able to whisper.
Then he’d kissed me mute anyway.
Not that I minded.
The older couple that walked into the elevator did mind, though.
Then he left me with Heath and a promise from me that I’d be “careful.”
“Careful” was a relative term.
Rosie and I made “careful” our own.
The familiar pang came with thinking of my best friend. But then something else came. A thought that had me abandoning the manifest, banishing it to the depths of my bag, clicking off Google and clicking onto Facebook.
I’d been going about this the entirely wrong way. The sensible way.
I had Rosie to thank for my idea that had me strutting out of the office.
I didn’t know if Keltan would, considering his opinion of careful and hers might differ.
Everyone had a best friend. Even the craziest of us. Even crazy needed company. And Lucinda had been apparently certifiable, but she also was a famous and talented designer. And, by the looks of the photos of her at parties, a great time. Though that could have been on account of all the drugs she was on.
She had a lot of hangers-on. I’d had to wade through the surface ones to find the one who accompanied her crazy.
It wasn’t exactly great journalism, or hard, but these were changing times and one had to change with them.
So, finding the woman tagged most with her on Facebook and Instagram, and on society websites and one police report, had me driving out to Calabasas.
Yeah, the universe was totally looking out for me. Ashlin Lucas was an heiress who partied for a living and shopped like no one I’d ever met. Because of my months as a fashion and lifestyle reporter, I ran in a lot of the same circles as her. My credit card may not have been platinum, or even black, but we found each other’s crazy and got on well enough for me to have her phone number.
And for me to be able to call her and ask for a chat about a possible profile for a story.
It was only a white lie. Roger had been making noises about having to “fluff up the publication with fucking stories about stupid heiresses who snorted cocaine while wearing couture, because who else would aspiring young girls want to read about?”