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He smiles condescendingly. “This security guard? Did anyone else see him?”
“They’re all contractors, according to J.A.’s assistant. No one even knew his name . . . something that started with a C or a K, one guy said . . . Chad, Kyle, Cole . . . something like that. Apparently, they all came in for a one-time gig.”
“Helpful,” he says dryly. I swear I think he’s doodling random check marks on the report now.
“So, what do you need? The model type, the color?” I ask, trying to get us on track to do something, anything that might result in getting my laptop back. Isn’t this sort of like a kidnapping? The first four hours are key.
“And what exactly was on this laptop that would make it worth stealing?”
“My manuscript!” Detective Carter looks perplexed, so I add, “Of my book. Like you said, I’m a writer.”
Humor lights in his eyes, and he’s almost laughing as he asks, “What kind of stuff are you writing about that someone would want to steal your manuscript? I’ve heard of superfans, but stealing a story seems a bit . . . overboard. Are you sure there wasn’t anything else in the bag . . . or on your laptop?”
I can see the way he looks at me, and I unconsciously cross and uncross my legs, trying not to shift around too much. I feel tears threaten, and I feel so small and ridiculous that I want to curl up and disappear.
Maybe this is a sign that this book isn’t meant to be. I’ve had enough trouble with it, but I kept pushing. Maybe this is fate’s way of telling me to just give it up.
Seeing my distress, Detective Carter seems to decide he’s done enough to put me in my place and leans forward, offering me a tissue. “It’s okay, honey. I’ll see what I can do for you.”
That sounds about as authentic as a two-dollar Rolex and doesn’t ease my mind in the slightest. The condescending ‘honey’ irritates me too, but instead of going off on him, I take the tissue and roughly swipe under my eyes.
“Why don’t you tell me what the book is about? Maybe that’ll help.”
“It’s a romance, the sequel to my first book,” I continue, trying to calm myself.
“Romance.”
Judgment is already apparent, the corners of his mouth twitching as he fights a smile. “Like lady porn? All heaving bosoms and unsheathed swords? Or are we talking the red room whips and chains type?”
Somehow, his disdain for my work is the spark needed to push me from being weepy to being pissed off again. Fire flames up in my gut, not embarrassment because I’m not embarrassed about what I write. What’s wrong, in a world where people treat each other like shit on a regular basis, with writing about women empowering themselves, men who have good hearts, and love that always ends in happily ever after?
What’s so fucking wrong with love?
Okay, so sometimes, the characters are works in progress, needing a little help and growth to go from bad boys to good guys, or from traumatized to strong, but that’s real life.
So no, not embarrassed. In fact, as the fire builds and the anger grows inside me, I square my shoulders again, staring at him. What gives this . . . man . . . Detective Jax Carter the right to be so cavalier and rude about something that means so much to me, writing it off like my heart and soul spilled on blank white pages is nothing more than drivel and sex?
Fuck this guy.
“You know what? Forget about it. Thanks for absolutely nothing, asshole,” I bite out harshly and intentionally loudly. I want everyone in the room, though there’s only the clerk up front and one other officer several desks away, to hear me. “I’ll have my agent be in touch about the police report so we can file a loss claim.”
I’m talking out of my ass. I don’t know what the publisher or Hilda is going to do about this, but I’m going to need their support if I have to deal with shit like Jax Carter. Because all I can think about is slapping that smug smile off his face and pinching his oversized head straight off his body right now.
I offer up a silent little thanks to my dad. Mom might have given me my red hair, but Dad’s the reason for my short temper and fighting spirit. And I’m ready to fight for myself now, standing up and glaring at the detective.
Detective Carter looks shocked, probably at my language and possibly at being called out. He’s probably so used to being the biggest swinging dick in the room that he’s stunned when a woman dares to call him out on his shit.
He stands up too, trying to regain the height advantage and not show embarrassment from my outburst. “Miss Woodstock, wait—”
