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I couldn’t wait to hear what she had to say when she found out that all her “Singh Circus” polos would have to be thrown out and new ones made.
My lower belly decided to spasm, and I groaned.
More cramps.
Periods were the devil.
CHAPTER 10
Mirrors don’t lie. And lucky for you, they don’t laugh.
-Crimson to Val
CRIMSON
It was late night creeping that had me making the decision to find out everything I possibly could about Winston Cyrus Osborn.
First, I started off on social media.
He had all the pertinent accounts, or, at least, his business face did. I didn’t see any personal accounts anywhere.
That’s when I started searching through Insta’s photos.
Everyone loved a billionaire.
And, seeing as Mr. Winston Cyrus Osborn was so aesthetically pleasing, I knew there’d be a lot of photos of him online. Ones that he approved and didn’t approve alike.
I started my search with the hashtags #Winston and #WinstonOsborn.
The first hashtag wasn’t specific enough, so I moved on to the second one, and was instantly rewarded with a lot of eye candy for my viewing pleasure.
The first photo that popped up was from a gossip news website.
It was a photo of Winston at a gala wearing a black tux.
He was staring at the camera like it was his god given duty to be there but he’d rather be anywhere else.
His black suit was accented with a light pink bow tie that gave just the perfect amount of color to his overall dark self.
I’d never been a bow tie person before. I’d always felt they were a bit childish and stuffy. But I realized right then and there that Winston Cyrus Osborn could make a believer out of me as long as he was the one wearing it. And he looked anything but childish or stuffy.
In fact, he looked all man in that tux, despite what he was wearing.
I could see the strength in his hands as he held onto what looked like a cane of some sort. He was holding it out to a person who was out of the frame.
The veins in his hands were pronounced, and I wanted to reach into the picture and run my fingers over the ropey skin.
It was his hair, though, that surprised me the most.
Why? Because he actually had some.
It was wavy and longer, swept back from his face, as he looked at whomever he was holding the cane out to.
I groaned when I saw all the likes on the photo. Eighteen million.
Wow.
The next photo was of him getting out of a vehicle. He was smoothing down the length of his tie as he got out, his eyes on the street beyond where the camera was positioned.
The next one, though, was what held my attention for the longest.
It was a beach photo.
In the caption it read: Winston does Maldives on his lonesome.
At first sight, what caught my eye about the photo was the blue clearness of the water. It was captivating.
Then the beautiful sun shining in the background.
It was a sad day when Winston didn’t compare, but once he had my attention, he kept it.
The man was wearing black swim trunks.
But again, not ones that you’d go and buy off the shelves, but ones that were obviously custom made for him.
They were short, about five inches from the inside seam of his crotch, and they showed off his beautifully tanned skin and muscular legs.
His upper body was bare, and he had tattoos on his chest. Lots of them.
Mouthwatering, I scrolled and scrolled until I got to the end of the hashtags.
It was the final photo that caught my attention and held it, though.
Because he was looking at the camera the way I imagined he was looking at me weeks ago when we were alone in that alleyway.
It was a close up of him wearing some aviator sunglasses.
His mouth was turned up at the corner baring just a hint of perfectly white and straight teeth. Those lips surrounding that perfect mouth were plump and kissable.
And his eyes, covered up by those aviators, I could still tell were directed straight at the photo taker.
Also, wow, I didn’t have to see the expression in those eyes to know they were heated and intense.
I clicked on the profile that’d posted the original photo and came to a dead end when the words on the screen said that the profile had been deactivated.
Going back to the previous page, I expanded the caption.
It read: My every day, real life, book boyfriend.
I narrowed my eyes and read off the name, then switched social media sites to see if I could find the woman on other platforms. I had no luck, so I chose to call Folsom for help.
When I explained what I needed, she said, “Of course. Let me get my computer.”
She was back in less than thirty seconds and was humming away moments later as she said, “The account was deactivated seven years ago.”
