Good Roast Lines Romane & Geschichten

she said softly. Her voice felt like an anchor. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. “Ava?” she asked gently. I swallowed. “I did it,” I said. Silence. Not the awkward kind. The listening kind. “And?” she asked quietly. I looked at the stick in my hand again. “Two lines,” I whispered. Her breath caught on the other end. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then she said, “Are you okay?” The question was simple.

Written in the exact same rough, heavy dark ink that had crossed out my presentation title were six short words: Gym basement storage. Midnight. Don't make me wait.

The nerves in my body quietly tensed. Soon, a sleek black car pulled up at the building. Thomas's eyes lit up, and he eagerly waved his hand. "Babe!" Imogen stepped out, impeccably dressed in a cream suit, cradling an enormous bouquet of roses.

“Odds on Key One are vicious. Everyone thinks she’ll go the distance. All twelve. Clean run.” “She won’t make it past me,” I growl. My voice is steel twisted around bone. “I’ll ruin her before the second key’s even fucking warm.” Elliot barks a laugh, sharp and obscene. “You better. Because if she survives the lineup? If she actually makes it through every Key and walks out with the payout?” He whistles low. “That’s eight figures, Cross. Real money. Even for us.”

“I’ll be fine. Let’s just get to lunch before I collapse or something.” Xavier proceeds to mumble something about starving myself till I drop and I can’t even argue with him. He isn’t wrong. I’ve had a very unhealthy relationship with food for some time now. How I gain weight remains a mystery to me. “Let’s just g…” “Hosea!” A scrawny small boy skids to a halt in front of us panting and out of breath. He seems like he’s been running for quite a while. “Matt…” he’s too out of breath to even form a full sentence.

he said through clenched teeth. “Professor, you’re about one bad step away from rolling halfway down Frost Ridge.” “I am not—” I crouched and hooked an arm behind his knees before he could protest. “What are you doing—” I lifted him. He was lighter than I expected, but still solid weight as I straightened. “Put me down.” “No.” “Mr. Foster.” “Relax.” His hands grabbed my shoulders as the ground shifted beneath him. “Put. Me. Down.” “I’m getting you back to the trailhead.”

Damon Cross was the kind of storm you didn’t prepare for, you just prayed you’d survive the damage. ** The next day** The restaurant Damon had chosen was the kind of place that existed in whispers. Quiet, exclusive, shadowed in candlelight and glass walls that looked out onto the city skyline. The kind of place where deals were signed without contracts, where power traded hands over crystal glasses of wine.

I tapped accept. A line appeared on the screen. [Assignment term: three years. Destination: Havenmist branch. Please report to your assigned location by this Saturday.] Today was Wednesday. There were three days left before both my wedding and my departure. Simon Carver saw me looking down at my phone, and his frown deepened. "Maren, I'm talking to you." I locked my phone and looked up at him. "Mm. I heard you." He probably hadn't expected me to be so calm.