Page 37 of Howl You Doin?
A fucking dinner?! This guy doesn’t eat, but he wants to, what? Lay out a picnic blanket and woo her like some kind of sap? That isnotthe Frank I know.
“Sure, that would be nice.” Her higher-pitched tone says she’s excited.
That would be nice? Does she likehim?
“A date it is, then.” His tone is muffled, as if he’s wearing one of his sly smirks across his cleanly shaved face. “I have to make a call, so I will leave you to freshen up.”
Ugh, this unusual charm from him is making my stomach roil in disgust, and Whitley is too damn blind to see it’s all just some kind of ruse. I want to punch the fucker in the face. She will not be going out with him.
I will her to leave so I can get back to my search without being caught, and then beat the shit out of Frank. What is he doing asking Whitley on a date? More importantly, why is she accepting with a cute giggle in her voice?
And worst of all, why do I feel a shitty emotion taking root in my chest?
I’m now less mad about them talking, and more upset about them going out together, like a damn couple sipping wine and flirting over food.
The infuriating temptress won’t even talk to me without biting my damn head off.
Chapter 12
Whitley Whitt
Sneaky vibes.
I groan onceFrank disappears down the hallway, then open the door to my suite.
Wow, Frank Stein wants to go on a date with me. The richest man alive wants to go on a date with me, a Southern girl from NOLA, and I am not remotely attracted to the guy.Ugh.If only I felt even a flutter of arousal, this would be the coolest day of my life.
I need to call Josie, the only friend I’ve managed to hang onto since my divorce from Trevor. She would die since she’s always been one to keep up with celebrities from Frank Stein to the Kardashians. Anyone who’s anyone, she knows about them for some reason. The other day I was texting her about this dish I was making for the guests, and she starts squealing about how Taylor Swift and her mom flew out to see Travis Kelce play, which is apparently big news.
I tug my phone from my back pocket to tell her, and as I toe off my work shoes, my gaze snags on my open closet and myempty duffel bag lying on the floor inside it. Shit. My poor excuse for a suitcase reminds me I have nothing to wear to a date.
I check the time on my watch. Two more hours till lunch, enough time for a shower and to take a well-deserved break. I look down at the oil stains and food splatters on my uniform and grimace. Maybe the village will have something that could be date worthy. I should go shopping tomorrow, not that it really matters, I guess.
The richest man in the world and not even a hint of excitement. How is it that my entire being lights up with both rage and arousal at Connor just breathing?
I must be broken.
I step into the bathroom and before I can turn on the light, a large hand covers my mouth, muffling my scream of surprise.
“Shhh,” a deep voice says, before I’m slammed against the bathroom door, my back flat against the wood, and I immediately start to struggle.
“Stop it,” the man growls, keeping his hand over my mouth, then he crowds in closer using his beefy forearms to block my attempts to slap at him. “Just stay still.”
“Connor?” I ask, my voice all weird and distorted.
I stop struggling and he removes his palm from my mouth, then flicks on the light.
He grips my wrists, shoves my arms up, and with my hands held hostage above my head on the door, Connor’s angry features lean into my face.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Something digs into my wrists before dropping and smacking me in the forehead. “Ouch.”
It hits the floor and a brrrrr sound starts up.
My jaw drops, and it takes me a hot second to realize that’s my vibrator bouncing and buzzing across the smooth, green-tiled floors.
“What the hell are you doing agreeing to go on a date with him?” he whisper-yells, taking my attention from the vibrator. “He is a snake.”
“What the hell are you doing in my bathroom? And why do you have my vibrator?” I ask, screwing my eyes shut in horror when it bounces against the glass wall of the shower.
