Read Online Selling Scarlett by Ella James, Mae I Design - Free Book Online
Authors: Ella James, Mae I Design
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I huff my breath out, so angry now I'm seeing stars. "Dad, did you tell Linzie to screen my phone calls?"
"Screen your calls? Of course not, Elizabeth. Linzie would never do something like that. She cares a lot about our relationship."
I can feel my lower lip tremble. "Why don't I believe you?"
He sighs, and it's the sigh he used to save for Mom. I get the eerie feeling Linzie is standing right beside him, encouraging him, with her deep brown eyes, to stick it to me.
"Elizabeth. You have issues with trust."
“What?”
“There’s money available for counseling—”
His comment takes me off guard and makes me furious. "Oh yeah?" I demand, cutting him off. "You think so? Maybe Linzie could see me. Do herbalists take insurance? I know they’re great advice givers, so maybe I could fly out—"
I'm still going—verbal vomit, that's what Cross would call it—when the dial tone dings.
My mouth stays open and my eyes fill up with tears. "I need counseling?" I slam the phone down with all my might, feeling the impact in my fingertips as I whirl around to face the empty kitchen.
At least, it was supposed to be empty. I was supposed to curl into a ball and sob, because when I get this mad, it's the only thing I can do to discharge my anger. Instead, I find myself staring at Hunter West.
Chapter Six ~HUNTER~
Her face is blotchy, like she's been stung by a bunch of bees. I can tell she might cry because her sea blue eyes are glowing brilliantly, and she's got them wide open, the way girls do when they don't want tears to spill and smear up their mascara.
Her wavy, dark brown hair is messy, hanging just above her shoulders, and I want to run my fingers through it.
Shit.
I shouldn't even be here.
I saw the gate open and I threw on my superhero cape. Then I saw the unfamiliar car with the San Francisco plates and found the door unlocked. I know nobody's living here. I keep an eye on the place, because I want to buy it soon; its acreage backs against my bird-hunting lodge, which is where I was heading when I made this detour.
Batman or not, I've screwed up. I shouldn’t be in Libby DeVille's childhood home, standing in this massive, outdated kitchen with her, just like I shouldn't have crept close enough to hear her talk to her father.
I tell myself that I should turn and go—after all, Priscilla's waiting for me—but my feet have other plans. I take a small step closer, my eyes never leaving hers, even as she looks me over, Lakers cap to boots.
"Asshole father?" In the tomb-like silence of the house, I'm surprised at how deep my voice is.
I can see her shoulders rise and fall; she's trying to control herself. Judging by the bit I heard, it makes sense that she would be worked up. If his reputation is anything to go on, Benjamin DeVille didn't do much for his wife or daughter when he was with them, and does even less now that he’s left town.
Libby quickly smooths the pained look from her face and crosses her arms. "How much did you hear?" she asks me with a wary wince.
"Enough to know you're probably not the one in need of therapy."
She squeezes her eyes shut, running a hand through that silky hair. "Wow, well that's embarrassing."
If only she could be a fly on the wall at the family home in NOLA back when I lived there with Dad, Rita, and my half-sister, Amber. This wouldn't even register on our drama-meter. I want to tell her that, but I've got no clue how. Besides, the best way to keep a secret—that Rita is not my real mother, for instance—is to avoid mentioning anything to anyone that even comes close to the truth.
Libby chews her succulent lower lip, and it's my turn to stare her down. I’ve only seen her once, from a distance, since the night of the party, and I’m surprised by how much weight she’s lost. I wonder if it’s intentional, or if she’s stressed, and I’m surprised to find I actually kind of give a damn.
She plays with the ends of her hair, and I let my gaze linger, from her low-cut royal blue sweater
"Screen your calls? Of course not, Elizabeth. Linzie would never do something like that. She cares a lot about our relationship."
I can feel my lower lip tremble. "Why don't I believe you?"
He sighs, and it's the sigh he used to save for Mom. I get the eerie feeling Linzie is standing right beside him, encouraging him, with her deep brown eyes, to stick it to me.
"Elizabeth. You have issues with trust."
“What?”
“There’s money available for counseling—”
His comment takes me off guard and makes me furious. "Oh yeah?" I demand, cutting him off. "You think so? Maybe Linzie could see me. Do herbalists take insurance? I know they’re great advice givers, so maybe I could fly out—"
I'm still going—verbal vomit, that's what Cross would call it—when the dial tone dings.
My mouth stays open and my eyes fill up with tears. "I need counseling?" I slam the phone down with all my might, feeling the impact in my fingertips as I whirl around to face the empty kitchen.
At least, it was supposed to be empty. I was supposed to curl into a ball and sob, because when I get this mad, it's the only thing I can do to discharge my anger. Instead, I find myself staring at Hunter West.
Chapter Six ~HUNTER~
Her face is blotchy, like she's been stung by a bunch of bees. I can tell she might cry because her sea blue eyes are glowing brilliantly, and she's got them wide open, the way girls do when they don't want tears to spill and smear up their mascara.
Her wavy, dark brown hair is messy, hanging just above her shoulders, and I want to run my fingers through it.
Shit.
I shouldn't even be here.
I saw the gate open and I threw on my superhero cape. Then I saw the unfamiliar car with the San Francisco plates and found the door unlocked. I know nobody's living here. I keep an eye on the place, because I want to buy it soon; its acreage backs against my bird-hunting lodge, which is where I was heading when I made this detour.
Batman or not, I've screwed up. I shouldn’t be in Libby DeVille's childhood home, standing in this massive, outdated kitchen with her, just like I shouldn't have crept close enough to hear her talk to her father.
I tell myself that I should turn and go—after all, Priscilla's waiting for me—but my feet have other plans. I take a small step closer, my eyes never leaving hers, even as she looks me over, Lakers cap to boots.
"Asshole father?" In the tomb-like silence of the house, I'm surprised at how deep my voice is.
I can see her shoulders rise and fall; she's trying to control herself. Judging by the bit I heard, it makes sense that she would be worked up. If his reputation is anything to go on, Benjamin DeVille didn't do much for his wife or daughter when he was with them, and does even less now that he’s left town.
Libby quickly smooths the pained look from her face and crosses her arms. "How much did you hear?" she asks me with a wary wince.
"Enough to know you're probably not the one in need of therapy."
She squeezes her eyes shut, running a hand through that silky hair. "Wow, well that's embarrassing."
If only she could be a fly on the wall at the family home in NOLA back when I lived there with Dad, Rita, and my half-sister, Amber. This wouldn't even register on our drama-meter. I want to tell her that, but I've got no clue how. Besides, the best way to keep a secret—that Rita is not my real mother, for instance—is to avoid mentioning anything to anyone that even comes close to the truth.
Libby chews her succulent lower lip, and it's my turn to stare her down. I’ve only seen her once, from a distance, since the night of the party, and I’m surprised by how much weight she’s lost. I wonder if it’s intentional, or if she’s stressed, and I’m surprised to find I actually kind of give a damn.
She plays with the ends of her hair, and I let my gaze linger, from her low-cut royal blue sweater
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