The Author's Guide to Murder by Beatriz Williams

Author:Beatriz Williams
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2024-11-05T00:00:00+00:00

The argument itself was so stupid, Cassie couldn’t even remember what it had been about. Laundry, maybe. Or the cat litter box, or the dishwasher. It didn’t matter. Chip could be a little stubborn and self-righteous when it came to misunderstandings about household chores, or the implication that he hadn’t done them the right way, and sometimes Cassie let her feelings get a little too hurt. Either way, they should have made up before she left for the conference. Cassie should have apologized, but she was waiting for Chip to apologize first—never, ever tell a woman she’s being too emotional—and somehow she ended up at the stupid hotel bar, feeling unloved. Unappreciated. Not . . . cherished enough.

Vulnerable.

Not that any of this was an excuse for what she’d done.

She could still hear the excited female whisper in her ear—Oh my God, that’s Brett Saffron Presley! Like he was Mick Jagger or Brad Pitt or . . . well, she couldn’t think of anyone younger; they all looked alike to her. Ryan Reynolds? Or Ryan Gosling? One of those Ryans. Anyway, the stallion had just pranced in, the stud of the herd, wearing leather and a smirk, just like his author photo. He’d pulled up the barstool next to Cassie—already a couple of drinks into her pity party—and shone his light on her.

And what did she do? Freeze him out? Pay her tab and walk away?

Nope and nope.

She’d basked in that light. Glowed in it. Or, more accurately, she’d reflected it back to him and his glorious ego in an infinite loop of self-regard.

So she had nobody to blame but herself.

She’d let him order her a drink, and another drink. Something fizzy and sweet, like candy. She remembered an elevator, she remembered hanging on his arm because she couldn’t stop the spinning in her head. Feeling like a million bucks—an important writer, an important person, because Brett Saffron Presley himself wanted to see her latest manuscript.

Upstairs. In her room. Or his room. Or something.

That was all she remembered until she opened her eyes the next morning to a splitting headache and the terrifying sight of a hotel suite that was not her own, a head on the pillow next to hers that did not belong to her husband.

And the black weight of guilt that only became blacker and heavier when she realized a few weeks later that she hadn’t had her period.

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