Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 38307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
“Depends,” I say. “Are you here to kill me or keep me alive? Because I’d like to dress differently depending on the vibe.”
One corner of his mouth twitches. “That your attempt at humor or a threat assessment?”
“Both. I’m multi-talented.”
He shifts his stance, and I catch the subtle movement of his gaze again. He’s watching the cars, the terminal, the perimeter fence. He’s not just looking at me. He’s looking through me. “Sinclair Hawthorne,” he says, like that should mean something.
It doesn’t. But my mother’s tone when she said his name did. Like she’d reached into the bottom drawer where she keeps her most terrifying options and pulled out a person.
I tilt my head. “Sinclair. Like the gas station?”
His eyes narrow. “Like the man who’s getting you out of here.” Ah. Great. He has humor too. It’s just locked behind a wall of irritation.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, then add, “I expected you to be older.”
His gaze drops to my mouth for half a second, then back to my eyes. “I expected you to be less… shiny.”
I blink. “Shiny?”
He gestures vaguely at my entire existence. “Sunglasses. Jewelry. Bag that should have its own security detail.”
I glance down at my tote. “It’s called self-care.”
“It’s called a beacon.”
“Wow,” I say, slow and sweet. “You really know how to make a girl feel special.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You want special, buy a cupcake. I’m here because someone tried to run you off the road.”
“I handled it.”
He studies me, and I get the distinct feeling he’s mentally cataloging every bruise I don’t have. “Handling it isn’t the goal,” he says. “Surviving it is.”
My throat tightens, and I hate that he’s right. I also hate that he looks like that while being right.
I lift my chin. “So what’s the plan, Sinclair Hawthorne?”
“Sin,” he corrects.
“That’s unfortunate,” I say. “I was going to call you Mr. Hawthorne like a Victorian governess.”
His eyes go flat. “Rowan.”
“What?”
He leans in just a fraction. “You can keep trying to be cute. It won’t change the fact that you’re coming with me. And you’re going to do what I say.”
I laugh, because if I don’t laugh, I will throw my phone at his forehead. “You were hired by my mother,” I say. “Not by me.”
He holds my gaze. “Your mother wants you alive.”
“So do I.”
“Then cooperate.”
My pulse hops again, irritatingly, because the word “cooperate” coming out of his mouth feels like an invitation to a fight I might enjoy.
Enemies to lovers? No, thank you. I’ve read that book. It ends with me making compromises and him learning emotions. I do not have time for character development while someone is trying to murder me.
Still, my mouth opens before my brain can rein it in. “You always this bossy or is it a special treat because I’m a damsel in designer sunglasses?”
His gaze flicks to the runway behind me. “Damsels don’t investigate organized crime.”
“Finally,” I mutter. “Someone sees my depth.”
He looks back at me, and the slightest hint of amusement returns. “You’re going to be a problem.”
“And you’re going to be a migraine,” I shoot back. “Look at us. Destined.”
His jaw ticks. That’s a point for me. “Bag,” he says, holding out his hand.
“I can hold my own bag.”
“I’m taking it.”
“No.”
He gives me a look that could make a grown man confess to tax fraud.
“I’m not handing my stuff to a stranger on an airstrip,” I say. “I’ve seen too many documentaries.”
“Rowan,” he warns.
“I can carry it. I have arms.”
He steps in, reaches for the strap, and I tighten my grip. Our fingers brush. A stupid spark zips up my arm like my body has decided this is a meet-cute and not a hostage situation. I glare at my own nerve endings.
“Let go,” he says.
“Make me.”
He doesn’t yank. He doesn’t wrestle. He simply leans closer, voice low enough that it feels like he’s talking directly into my bloodstream. “Fine,” he says. “Walk with it. But if you get snatched because you needed to win a tote-bag standoff, I’m going to be annoyed.”
“Oh no,” I whisper. “Anything but your annoyance.”
His eyes lock on mine, and for a beat, the wind dies and the noise fades and it’s just us standing too close with too much tension over a bag strap. Then he steps back like he’s the one with the self-control, and I’m the one who’s about to do something reckless.
He gestures toward a black SUV waiting with the engine running. “Move.”
“Bossy,” I say, but I start walking.
He falls into step beside me, close enough that I can smell him. Clean. Soap. A hint of something like oak or aftershave or maybe just the illusion of safety.
I hate that it works.
“You always talk this much?” he asks.
“It’s a coping mechanism,” I say. “Some people chew gum. I run my mouth.”
He glances at me. “Try chewing gum.”