Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 29394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 29394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 147(@200wpm)___ 118(@250wpm)___ 98(@300wpm)
“Miss Fraser.”
“Hey, Garfield.” I give him a wave.
He takes his door security job extremely seriously. He really wanted to be a cop. I asked once, and he told me he had no interest in becoming one. I could tell he was lying straight through his teeth. I don’t know if it was the lying or the fact that I think he snitches to my dad, but I don’t care for him either way. He stares way too much. I think he’s creepy, while other girls in the building flirt with him.
“You want to tell me what that was?” Vargas asks once we’re both out of the building.
“Sorry.” I glance both ways up and down the street. “Just, you know, people talk and all that.”
“Here.” He motions to a black SUV parked right in front of my building. A driver hops out, but Vargas holds his hand out to tell him he’s got it.
“Can you pick me up down the block?” Vargas glances back through the glass doors into my building.
“Pull down the street, Marco,” he orders the man. Without waiting, I head in the direction he motioned his driver. Once we’re out of sight of the front of the building, Vargas grabs me by the hip, pulling me into his side.
“Is he a stalker ex too?”
“Ethan isn’t an ex.” It takes more than one date, doesn’t it? How would I know?
“Then what is the deal with the security guard?” I catch a hint of irritation to his tone. He’s trying to hide it, but I know it’s there.
“He snitches on me to my dad.” I roll my eyes. Having to say those words to a super hot man is the freaking worst.
“Nothing worse than a snitch.” His hand slides to my back to guide me toward the SUV.
Crap.
I think my job is being a snitch.
7
VARGAS
By the time we pull up to the gallery, she’s fidgety and a bit more cautious.
“Something wrong?” I ask, my hand on the door handle.
“No. It’s just…” She tangles her fingers together. “I guess this was somewhat impulsive. I’ve been trying to work on that. Dad says thinking at least three steps ahead is what I should strive for.”
“Just because your father is a certain way doesn’t mean you have to be.”
She smiles a little at that, her fingers finally stilling. “I guess that’s right.”
I walk around and open her door, helping her to the curb as I give Marco a sharp nod. He’ll wait for us.
“Don’t worry about what your father thinks. I won’t tell him about today if you won’t.”
She nods. “Deal.”
It seems making a deal with the younger Fraser is quite a bit easier than trying to make one with her father. Then again, I’m playing fair with Cadence. At least, I am at this moment, though I’m not foolish enough to ignore the darker motives swirling at the back of my mind. I’m interested in her, I can’t deny that, and the interest is far more than simply professional. But I can’t deny I want to understand both how she works for her father as well as the other facets of her personality.
“This is nice.” Her eyes widen as I lead her through the glass doors and into our art exhibits.
“We’ve picked talent from around the world and invited them to display their works here.”
“I guess you and your dad are really into art?” She pauses in front of an abstract painting of a girl on a swing.
“I’d like to say I am, but I’m more interested in the benefits–tax and otherwise–to having the gallery and free exhibition space for up-and-coming artists.”
“Oh.” She frowns a little.
“The ends justify the means,” I add. “And I enjoy the pieces”—I glance at the multi-colored toilet with flowers crafted from bits of trash sprouting from it—“for the most part. Even if I don’t understand them.”
She stares at the toilet for a few beats. “I don’t know if anyone understands this one.”
We walk around the rest of the pieces on display, an easy silence falling between us. She’s clearly very interested in everything, her eyes seemingly missing no detail. When pleasure skirts across her expression, my heart quickens, and I peer at whatever artwork she’s staring at to try and find exactly what has caused that reaction. But I told her the truth when I said I don’t have an eye for art. There’s an entire world hidden in these pieces, like a language that I don’t speak but certain people–people like her–are fluent in. I’m somewhat in awe of her as we finish our turn around the gallery.
“Which was your favorite?” I ask.
“Hmm.” She turns and walks to one of the darker canvases, the shadows cascading in almost gloomy shades until a single pop of bright iridescence near the top edge draws your eye. “I think this one.”