Page 30 of Beautiful Revenge
The last thing I need is to scroll social media. From what Blake let on, the world is talking about me. I can’t imagine I want to know what they’re saying.
I don’t need that kind of drama getting under my skin. My story is mine.
No one knows.
But, in time, they will.
I’ll make sure of it.
Devon
She sets her fork down and swipes at her full lips.
She’s in a strapless dress that hugs every curve from her tits to her knees. Her hair falls in loose waves past her shoulders, and her skin is sun-kissed from sitting by the pool this afternoon.
It turns out, I’ve spent most of my day studying the American Princess who moved into my suite this morning. And not because I’m some sort of selfless do gooder. Not in the least.
Selfless is the last thing I feel at the moment. Selfishis how I would describe myself. And the more I learn about Harlow Madison, it only makes me crave more.
To anyone else, I’ll play it off as the investigator in me who just can’t stop. But I know better.
Everything about her makes me want more. The more I’m around her, learn about her,watchher...
Damn.
I’m turning into a fucking stalker.
Am I proud of this?
Hell, no.
Have I stopped?
Also, no.
I’ve stood here watching her since Blake seated her. I was going to have a chat with him about how much he talked her ear off, but Harlow seemed to enjoy it, so I let it go. The kid can run his mouth. Just last week, he went on for fifteen minutes straight about an antique truck his grandpa gave him that he’s rebuilding.
Americans and their pickup trucks. I’d say they’re obsessed, but I’m not one to talk when it comes to current fixations.
When Blake started telling me about parts and bumpers and chrome, I’m pretty sure he was about to rope me into his next trip to the junk car graveyard. I had to fake a call frommy liquor distributor to escape the invitation. The kid is too likable. If he asked, I would’ve found myself digging through old cars for a working radiator. No one can refuse him anything. It’s why I gave him the job when he’d never worked a day in fine dining before walking through the front doors of the manor. Blake won me over and promised no one would work as hard as he would.
He's kept his promise and added to it. But as much as he hustles, he runs his mouth just as much. It works because everyone loves him. I could take some lessons from the kid if I cared.
Which I do not.
What I do care about is what’s going on with the woman I invited into my home, even though it’s not much of one.
I’ve been pretending to take inventory behind the bar since her server delivered her risotto. Surveillance has been a part of my life since I started with the Secret Intelligence Service. But this is so easy, I can’t even categorize it as that.
I’ve been a lot of things in my life, but never a stalker. That shit is for men who don’t have the balls to make a real move.
My balls are big enough for every man in this dining room, the whiskey bar, and the cigar lounge. But I need to see what she’s doing, who she’s talking to, and if she looks like a person who just did the unthinkable.
And the answer to those questions are boring as hell: eating, no one, and just a big fat, fucking no.
She hasn’t picked her phone up since before she ordered wine.
I press send on the liquor order that’s taken me ten times longer than it should have and hand the tablet back to the bartender on duty. “This should restock you after the wedding fiasco.”
