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Authors: Veronica Larsen

Entice (Hearts of Stone #2) (2 page)

BOOK: Entice (Hearts of Stone #2)
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Time is running out for me, graduation looming around the corner. I wasted the chance I've been waiting for when I let nerves choke me up like an idiot. I've never been good with words. That's why I wrote her the letter. A letter that's burned a hole in my pocket all summer. Not that I have it with me now. I decided, almost as soon as the school year started, the letter was a bad idea. It might have the opposite effect I want. Might freak her out instead of making her realize how I feel. It's too long…too much for someone who doesn't even know I exist.

That's what it boils down to. I'm the guy pining over the girl who not only doesn't know who I am, but is in the bathroom crying over another guy altogether. To say I'm pathetic would be an understatement.
 

It's time to leave.

As I cut through the groups of students, the girl who called me a creep glares at me like I did something else to offend her. Ignoring the way she turns to whisper into someone's ear, I walk past, not caring what she could say about me.
 

The side-exit door slams shut behind me as I hurry down the steps, the chill outside pressing against my button-down shirt. I'll have to explain to my father why the suit jacket he gave me is gone, but I don't care. Emily has it draped over her gorgeous body and that alone makes anything else seem trivial in comparison.

"Hey. You!"

I turn around, seeking the source of the deep, rough voice, and see the guy running to catch up to me.
 

It's Jonathan. I don't know him either, but everyone knows
of
him. Varsity wrestler, giant ego that somehow still manages to seep out through the ridiculous amount of gel in his hair.

My arms hang loosely at my sides, despite the way the hairs on the back of my neck prickle awake in anticipation of conflict.

He looms over me. "You fucking talking to my girl?"
 

What an idiot. He embarrassed the girl, called her white trash and a whore, broke up with her, and now, he chases someone down for talking to her? Who the hell does he think he is? Does he think she's his property or something?

I'm trying to think of something snarky to say, but words fail as irritation whips away at my skin.
 

I hate everything about this guy. From his blatant sense of superiority to the careless way he treats the girl I'd kill to be with.
 

I stare him down instead, to show him I'm unafraid, although, I'm not exactly convinced of that. I might be taller than him by an inch or two, but my lean build pales in comparison to his bulky frame.

"Relax," I say. "I was just making sure she was all right."

Not waiting for him, I turn to walk away. His hand clasps my shoulder and he whips me back around.
 

The way he does it—with the force and disregard of someone handling a rag doll—sends a blinding rage shooting through me. I swing a clenched fist but my knuckles barely graze his cheekbone.
 

Releasing my shoulder, his hand moves to where my class ring left behind a small cut on his cheek.

Dammit. I shouldn't have done that.

Jonathan's fist lands more accurately than mine did. It connects with my jaw and I stumble, falling onto my hands. He flattens me against the ground with his foot, my cheek presses to the cold, wet cement. The moment the pressure of his foot leaves my back, I pull up on my hands and knees.
 

"I've got a message from Emily," he says.
 

The sound of her name makes me stop to lift my head. The sight that greets me is his large foot hurling toward my side.

CHAPTER ONE

Emily

Walking into the office, my fingers tighten over the deli bag containing my lunch. Adam looks up from his desk at the crinkling sound of paper. His response to my sarcastic smirk is a slow blink, his face as blank as ever. I know he has no idea my smile isn't really a smile, but a warning.
 

We've shared an office for months and I still know nothing about him. Adam and I have trouble communicating both verbally and non-verbally, so we opt for ignoring each other most of the time.
 

He doesn't speak my language; sarcasm is the only way I know to weed out the robots.
 

I'm aware of the silent understanding we have not to eat in the office. The space is small and the smells linger. But if I don't bring this sandwich to my mouth soon, the smell of onions and ham will be the least of Adam's worries.
 

It's barely noon, but already my stomach is eating itself and speaking in tongues.
 

I'm not
me
when I'm hungry. Or worse, I
am
me when I'm hungry.
 

The last thing I should've done was skip breakfast. But my stomach turned at the thought of food this morning when I awoke to a notice from my landlord announcing the building had been sold.

While the new owner will honor current lease agreements, he will not grant renewals on any lease after it expires. Why? Because he's an asshole developer looking to turn the apartment building into
 
commercial offices.
 

The notice may or may not have been sitting in my mailbox for a few weeks. Physical mail is something I've developed the bad habit of ignoring since I pay all my bills online. The only things I get in the mail are supermarket coupons, invoices of bills I've already paid, and random flyers. It doesn't help that my mailbox is on the other side of the parking lot. And it's been cold and raining here in San Francisco for the last two weeks.
 

What I have less of an excuse for is ignoring the signs on the elevator last month that announced an important tenant meeting. I dismissed it, thinking things that are really important aren't taped to elevator walls. They are shouted through loud speakers over blaring sirens while people run around panicking.

Not foreseeing a reason to worry, I procrastinated on renewing my lease, which expires in exactly eighteen days.
 

If that doesn't sound awful enough, I have a roommate. Another supposed grownup with whom I share responsibilities. I'm not sure how it's possible that we could collectively fail to muster the maturity it takes to check our mail or adhere to posted directions. Two simple life skills that apparently we've both failed to learn.

This morning, as we poured over the details of our impending eviction, Elle announced with thinly veiled excitement her decision to move in with her boyfriend for a while. I couldn't shake the feeling she was almost relieved by our predicament. Part of me wonders if she
did
read the notice in time, but opted to re-seal it with an iron and put it back, all to have a last minute excuse to play house with her man.
 

Not that it matters now. I have a little over two weeks to find a new place to live and, even more challenging, another roommate. Elle and I aren't exactly the best of friends, but we get along pretty well and have managed to avoid any sort of female drama over the past year.

A low growl rumbles in my belly as I set the deli bag down on my desk. I pull my coat off, tuck my hair behind my ears, and remember the brown roots I've been neglecting. My blonde dye is turning into an unintentional ombre look.

The door to the office swings open, forcing me to squeeze out of the way so I'm not pinned against the wall. Mona pokes her head inside. Her tense expression melts with relief when she sees me and she hurries inside, shutting the door behind her.
 

Nope. Whatever it is she wants from me, it needs to wait until after I eat. Walking around to my desk without looking at her is a challenge, but I manage just fine.

Mona is Bernstein's personal assistant. For Adam and me—associates, also known as bottom feeders—Mona is often the bearer of bad news in the form of tedious tasks that make me wonder if my profession is actually indebted servitude.
 

When I walked across the stage and received my law degree, no one called it a 'sort-of law degree.' When I passed the boards, no one said, 'You're almost there.'
 

No.
 

They said things like, 'Congratulations!' and 'You've made it!'
 

Made it where? To the filing room? To the coffee run? Not the way I envisioned my career panning out. From the time that I was a kid, I wanted to be able to slam my palm against a polished wood surface and yell, 'I object!'
 

That was the dream.
 

At some point, I allowed myself to be seduced by the notion of intellectual property law being the fastest growing specialty. As an IP, the only things I will ever get to jam angrily are keyboard keys. Not exactly exciting. But as a new associate, I don't even get to do this. I'm denied the simple joy of angry key jamming.
 

"
Emily
…" Mona says, realizing I'm ignoring her.

I'm already settled behind my desk, peeling the wrapping paper away from my sandwich. The creamy scent of mayo makes my mouth water. Almost at the same time, a pang rips through my stomach.
 

Oh, sandwich, come to momma. You're the light of my day and I'm going to make sweet love to you with my mouth.

"Collin Davenport's in the office," Mona blurts out.
 

My head snaps up and, from the corner of my eye, I see Adam look up as well. Even he isn't immune to that name.
 

"Is he outside the door?" I ask her, wondering what her secrecy is all about.
 

"No, he's in Bernstein's office."

"Okay, so why are you whispering?"

"I'm nervous!" She throws her hands up as though she can't understand how that's not obvious. "You need to go in there."

I bring the sandwich to my mouth but pause at her words.

"What—
me
?
Why
?"
 

Any other day, any other moment, I would be thrilled if not incredulous at the opportunity to carry out a real task. But something is off. Neither Adam nor I handle any real part of Davenport's civil suit. Bernstein seems insistent at keeping him away from the rest of the staff whenever he's in the office.
 

"Where's Bernstein?" I ask.

She lowers her voice to a whisper again. "Davenport wasn't supposed to come in today. His meeting was yesterday but he didn't show up. I think there was some scheduling mix-up, but I don't know how to tell him." She runs a hand through her hair and then fidgets with my stapler. "Bernstein's with the others at the promotion luncheon. I called him and he's on his way but he said to keep Davenport happy. The guy's already been waiting for ten minutes and he's super impatient."

"So you want me to stall him, until the real lawyers get back?"

She nods quickly then stops to bite her lip, realizing what she admitted. I give her a resentful look, which she returns with an innocent smile.
 

She gets me. I like Mona.

"Let me just finish eating this." I gesture toward my lunch.

She turns her head from me with an air of impatience. "Emily, it'll take ten minutes. Fifteen minutes, tops. Bernstein will take over as soon as he gets in. All you have to do is start going over the interrogatories that came in earlier this week. You've seen the questions."

"Sure, when I was
filing
them into the case file." I glance down, noting the onions poking out from between the two slices of sourdough bread. Damn it. I'll reek if I try to eat this right now. I swear, my damn vanity will kill me one day.
 

Sighing for dramatic effect, I set the sandwich down and rewrap it.

"Thank you," Mona says, the urgency fading from her voice. "He's usually really nice, but he's in such a bad mood today."

"Great, you're throwing me in with an angry puppy."

Her lips twitch before she mouths more thanks and disappears behind the door again.

Adam doesn't say a single word, even though I'm glaring at him, blaming him for the fact that I won't be able to eat for at least another fifteen minutes.

Why do
I
have to be punished for being the socially competent one?

With the stab of hunger now spreading into my veins, this is bound to be a lovely meeting, indeed.

CHAPTER TWO

 

The revamp of the
Batman
franchise is in production right here in San Francisco. The movie has yet to wrap filming and its star, Collin Davenport, is already garnering twice the tabloid attention he usually receives. For him, it's translated into a string of run-ins with the paparazzi. The latest of which is the reason he's in Bernstein's office oozing irritation, among other things.

Davenport gets to his feet when I enter. His companion, a blonde woman wearing a tight, black sweater dress, remains seated.
 

I've never met a famous person before but there isn't an ounce of awestruck giddiness in me. Maybe the growling beast in my gut ate it. While Davenport
is
nice to look at, I can't exactly eat him.
 

He's taller than I expected. At least six foot three, by my estimate. He wears a black peacoat over a tan sweater. His hair, which I always thought to be black, is in fact dark brown and longer than I've ever seen it, combed back in a sleek hairstyle. He's the spitting image of Bruce Wayne if I've ever seen one. The guy is as attractive as they come. Yet, I don't even picture myself sitting on his face.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Davenport."
 

I do my best to keep my tone even, trying to tune out my irritation, which, I try to remind myself, has little to do with his impatient demeanor.
 

"Hello." He's unsmiling as he shakes my outstretched hand, gaze moving past my face and toward the door behind me like he's expecting someone else to walk in.
 

His grip is loose over mine, barely taking the action seriously. It's not until I pull down firmly that he seems to correct himself at the last second to meet my purpose. I'm a fan of firm handshakes. None of that gentle bullshit.
 

BOOK: Entice (Hearts of Stone #2)
13.02Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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