Pheromonal: One Night With the Alpha novel Chapter 45

Chapter 45: Return to Fernsby Mansion?

Penelope’s gorgeous aquamarine eyes squint as she inspects me, a box of donuts in hand.

"You look like shit."

"Thanks." Rolling my eyes, I grab the box from her hand and take it to the kitchen, where I peek inside.

Sugared, glazed, cinnamon, and a few of the long chocolate ones. Simple flavors, but ones that’ll never steer you wrong.

Grabbing a sugared donut filled with jelly, I head back to the couch to watch the news again.

I spent about four hours last night freaking out over my face all over the television. After that, my more rational side kicked in. Now, I’m checking every bit of coverage I can, just to know what the story is ’on the streets.’ And to maybe make a mental note of every single person I’m going to try to get fired when I get my job back.

Getting revenge is much better than moping around, just hoping the police will do their jobs properly and get me off the hook for Scott’s murder. It gives me a little more purpose than just the vague hope of somehow finding the killer when trained professionals with multiple resources at their disposal are struggling.

"Use a plate, you heathen." Penelope smacks the top of my head lightly with a small-diameter plate, just barely bigger than the donut in my hand.

"Thanks." Setting my donut on it without taking the plate itself, I glue my eyeballs back to the TV, tuning to the next station.

Almost immediately, a photo of my face fills the screen. It’s from my driver’s license, so of course I look like a fat psychopath. It should be illegal to use driver license photos on national television.

"That make-up does not do your face shape justice, you know."

Glowering at Penelope, I raise the volume on her TV to blare her out.

She flops beside me, setting the plate on the coffee table as she eats a glazed donut. Without a plate.

Spill some hot cocoa on a rug once and now you can’t eat a donut on the couch in peace.

"Why are you watching this bullshit? You know it’s going to be a dumpster fire of misinformation."

Flicking my eyes briefly in her direction, I just say, "They’ve been interviewing my coworkers."

"And?"

"And I want to know every single person who provided a negative soundbite to the media." Leaning forward, I snatch my donut and take a bite, flaking powdered sugar everywhere. "I’m going to get every single one of them fired for a hostile work environment."

"Don’t talk with your mouth full. And Jesus, Nicole, eat over the plate." Leaning forward, she brushes the sugar off my lap, sounding more like my mother than my best friend. "The more my housekeeper has to clean, the more I have to pay her."

"Really?" Swallowing a decadent bite of raspberry jelly married to fluffy donut, I squint. "That seems crazy. Shouldn’t it be a flat fee?"

"Hourly fee, sweetheart. Hourly. The longer she’s here, the more I pay. So stop making a mess. It’s costing me money."

Grunting, I take another bite, holding back a grin as she holds the plate under my face to catch another powdered sugar explosion. "Every single headline is about me being a person of interest in the case. I’m pretty sure they’re not even looking at anyone else." freewebnσvel.cѳm

"McSexy will make sure they don’t overlook any evidence, Nikki. Don’t stress out too much."

"Mm-mm." Shaking my head, I point with a pinky toward the TV. "I’m starting to think they have no evidence at all. The only thing they have to look into is me."

"But there are the accounts, aren’t there?"

I shrug one shoulder. "Maybe. But that doesn’t prove someone wants him dead. If anything, don’t they make me look worse?"

"How does it make you look worse when the accounts pin everything on another murderer?"

Chewing slowly this time as I listen to the reporter talk all about how vicious and unhinged of an ex-fiance I am, I puzzle over her question, too. "I’ve been thinking."

"And?"

"There’s still no media coverage on strange murders in the area."

"Right. We established this already."

"So, what if these files are all fabricated? Let’s say no one’s dead. They really are fake accounting."

Penelope brushes more sugar off the couch, her brow furrowing. "Why would it even matter?"

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