Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 161434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 807(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 807(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
“Whaaat?” she croons. “It’s a serious offer.”
Millie wiggles in my arms, cooing as she tugs at the plastic around the cotton candy, trying to tear through it like a feat of strength.
“C’mon. The only offer I’m considering tonight is my niece’s sugar rush,” I say.
* * *
The next day, when I pick him up for work, he’s armed with another present.
Joy.
This time, he hands me a bottle of champagne that looks like it was shipped over from a Parisian catacomb.
“It’s a hundred and nine years old,” he says. “You’re welcome.”
“So I look like a lush now? Your gifts are getting stranger, boss.”
“You can’t tell me you don’t like good champagne,” he quips. “Everyone enjoys champagne from 1912, Miss Halle. It was a good year.”
“Because the Titanic sank?” I snicker, remembering that old movie. In some alternate universe, he would’ve made a good Jack Dawson. “I don’t think I’ve ever had champagne, honestly. I’m sure it’s nice and bubbly, but alcohol just seems like an odd gift for a driver.”
“It’s not like I expect you to guzzle it down on the clock. I’d never trash your sterling reputation,” he says, thumping his chest lightly with his fist. “How have you never had champagne, Halle? Are you part of some bizarre religious cult?”
I shrug. “More of a beer girl sometimes. They both fizz, right? I guess I’ve never seen the appeal in plunking down half a week’s pay for a nice champagne.”
A chill sweeps through me when I imagine what that bottle must be worth.
“Modest palate. Beer. Got it,” he grumbles, choking back what sounds like a sigh. “Did your niece enjoy the cotton candy?”
He stares at me hopefully, this hangdog look on his face.
“Her mom decided it was too close to bedtime to eat more than a pinch,” I say. “But she gobbled it up.”
“Fair enough. Glad someone likes it.” He nods, scratching at the trimmed halo of dark scruff covering his cheeks.
The next day, when I pick him up for work, he gets in the car and hands me a white envelope. My heart immediately starts pounding like he just flashed a knife.
What now? A concert ticket? A new car? A gift card to some outrageously beautiful (and overpriced) spa on Maui?
“Do I want to know?” I whisper, swallowing an anxious lump in my throat.
“Open it, damn you,” he bites off. “It’s a card. A nice one I picked out personally.”
I know this is where I should call it.
I should swallow my pride, tell him we’ll let bygones be bygones, and forget he ever treated me like a frat punk.
That’s what most reasonable folks would do, but they’re not me.
I’m not done having my fun or satisfying this morbid curiosity that makes me wonder just how over-the-top this man gets.
Putting on my best ice-cold glare, I toss my nose up in the air with an offended grunt.
“Now, you’re acting like a chick,” I say.
“Sexist!” he spits, snapping a finger at me. Then the smug glint in his eye fades. “...does that finally make us even?”
It physically hurts not to burst out laughing.
“Never,” I hiss.
And with one misplaced word—one bad decision to keep yanking his tail—I sign my death warrant. The game that should be winding down revs up.
Nicholas Brandt is many things: handsome fire, annoying as hell, and oblivious to the world beyond his own ego. But he’s also a gold medalist in determination.
The same act goes on for weeks.
Ten days in, I’ve given up and told him to forget about it a million times.
Surprise, surprise, he won’t. Every day he gets in the car with some bizarre new offering. The day he hands me balloons, I say, “I like steak.”
“What?”
“If you won’t let this go and insist on treating every day like Christmas...can tomorrow be a steakhouse gift card?” I ask, batting my eyes because it’s all I can do not to gouge them out.
“If I’m your plus one—”
“Nope. Not happening then,” I throw back.
His face heats red, and he’s quiet the rest of the ride home. He doesn’t even fight me when I punch the privacy screen up. One last glance and he looks like a human grenade struggling to push his pin back in before he explodes.
I should feel bad, but guess what?
I don’t. As long as this continues, I swear to God Almighty I’m not letting Brandt find a single crack in my armored heart.
A few days later when he gets in the car, he tells me to go to Hotel Indigo.
“Why are we going there?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Great Lakes Architecture Conference,” he says glumly. “It sounds boring as hell, doesn’t it? I should skip.”
I bite back a smile. “I didn’t say anything. Should I take you to the office instead?”
“Nah, it’s springtime, Halle. The sun’s finally shining in this godforsaken city and birds are chirping. Take us to Navy Pier. I’ll buy you cotton candy again, and this time you have to take a bite. You can’t just save it for your niece unless you truly hate it.”