Marry Screw Kill(10)

“I’ll do my best, but I’m going to be busy. Who knows if she’ll even talk to me.” I imagine his fiancée going to lunches with her girlfriends and shopping with his credit card. I’ve seen women younger than her living that lifestyle in New York City thanks to a sugar daddy’s deep pockets. Rochester may be different, but a gold digger’s methods are still the same. Find an older rich man and live off his money while keeping him happy in bed.

“She’ll talk to you, Sinclair. I have no doubt about that. Just be your charming, handsome self, and I am sure her true colors will come out,” Nina says, her tone mocking.

“Oh, grandmother, you’re wicked.” She cackles like a witch at my comment. I never want to be on her bad side.

“All I’m saying is see where her true interests lie. Don’t cross a line, just see if she wants you to.”

“Hey, we’re pulling up to the airport. Gotta run.”

“Okay, I’ll call you in a couple days, and thanks, Sinclair. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

The cabbie swings the car in front of the American Airlines departure area. I hand a wad of cash to the driver, leaving him with a rather large smile. I gather my luggage and head to the ticket counter. My trek to Rochester begins, ready or not.

***

My flight lands in Rochester on time. I exit the plane and walk the short concourse to the terminal exit. As I pass through security and start down the ramp to baggage claim, it dawns on me that I have no clue what Harlow looks like.

I scan the area and notice a petite woman with glowing blond hair at the end of the ramp. I can barely see her above the bustle of those passing by, but the golden-spun strands make a halo around her head. It’s not a bleached-out look, but an unearthly color that reminds me of corn silk—light to the eyes and likely soft to the touch.

When the crowd parts, she comes into full view and I almost stop in my tracks. My eyes travel down her slender frame and long as hell legs to the red heels on her feet. Talk about enticing. Her white dress and unique hair color makes her look almost angelic, but I doubt angels look like a wet dream in red shoes. I let my eyes slowly roam over her, hoping to burn her perfection into a memory to use later in the shower.

She’s holding a sign like car service drivers use to announce, Hey, there, Mr. or Mrs. So and So, I’m your ride home. As I draw closer, I wonder whom she’s waiting for.

Our eyes connect. Hers are a deep blueberry, a stark contrast to her pale skin. Damn, they’re as unique as the shade of her hair. She stares right into me, and to say she’s pretty would be a disservice to the creator who made her.

Her innocent beauty stuns me. She’s the kind of woman you want to protectively tuck under your arm and later toss over your shoulder as you carry her to bed. How I’d love to be the one she’s picking up.

Finally, I focus on the paper when she moves it higher, reading the words written on it.

SINCLAIR ELLIOTT

Holy f*ck! Could this sweet, blue-eyed angel be Harlow? I have trouble believing it. This woman’s innocent face and age give her an inexperienced, almost chaste appearance. Definitely not the woman I’d picture with my uncle.

I walk up to her. “Excuse me, Miss. I’m Sinclair Elliott.”

“Um … um, I’m Harlow Masters.” Sadly, her gaze falls toward the floor, and realization of who this woman is hits me. The demure beauty isn’t just some random person retrieving a weary traveler; she is the Harlow, the accused gold digger. But something doesn’t compute. She seems too shy, not an ounce of malice, which, in my experience, is a required trait for fortune-seekers.

Slowly, she looks up and I inhale a sharp breath, becoming a victim to those mesmerizing eyes once again. Composing myself, I reach out for a welcoming handshake.

I raise her hand and gently graze my lips across her knuckles. She’s simply too tempting. Plus, I promised Nina I’d find out Harlow’s alliances.

I release her hand, but I am not sure what to think. The blush on Harlow’s cheeks and the way she turns away when our eyes meet leads me to one conclusion: she’s definitely bashful.

“So, you’re Harlow.” My words hang in the air around us. She remains a bright shade of red, her eyes appearing unfocused.

Is she sick?

“Harlow, are you okay?” I express my concern, fighting the desire to press my hand against her forehead to check for a fever.

“Actually, I need to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back. Excuse me,” she says quickly, gesturing to the side.

“No problem.” I throw her a little wink and watch her turn on a dime, walking away. Her retreat leaves me with a hot view of red shoes, long legs, and a fine ass with the perfect wiggle.

Reality hits me as I adjust myself below the belt. I’m thinking about my uncle’s soon-to-be bride. I should feel ashamed, but the feeling doesn’t come. Instead, I can’t wait until she’s back by my side. I want to see the blue of her eyes and her angel-like hair again. I want to stare at her red heels and imagine dirty things.

Yeah, this whole scenario is f*cked up beyond belief. If I’m going to be living in the same house as Harlow for the next four weeks, I better get my shit together—fast.





Chapter Six


Harlow



I arrive at the Rochester Airport and realize I’m cutting it close. Sinclair’s plane lands in five minutes. Crap. I begin walking briskly toward the terminal in my new red heels. I’m sure I look ridiculous run-walking dressed like I am, but I want to be on time.