Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 79898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
“Clint Marshall has a standing appointment here,” I added. “We know each other. Personally.”
Portia’s cheeks turned from pink to red and her eyes grew wide as they hung all over me. She’d made no secret of the fact that she was clearly attracted to me, but she could have been the last woman in the world and I wouldn’t have been tempted.
Portia stood there awkwardly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other like she’d never worn a pair of heels before.
“That’s all,” I told her curtly.
Still flushing beet red, Portia scurried out of my office, leaving the door wide open and a trail of gardenia-scented perfume in her wake.
I groaned.
Clint snickered.
I pointed to the door. “You mind?”
Clint closed it, then took a seat at the table in the corner of my office that I had for personal client meetings. I loved my office – there was a large wall of glass that looked down at the city streets below. Ulrich Sports was high up enough that the people and even the cars down below looked like ants, and being up here always made me powerful, smug, and strong.
I just wished I could shake off whatever funky mood I’d woken up.
“Breakfast,” Clint said. He shoved the bag at me and the fried aroma grew stronger. I opened the bag and pulled out a greasy croissant loaded with sausage, cheese, and a fried egg.
“And don’t say shit about your diet, or whatever,” Clint said, raising an eyebrow at me. “You look hungover as hell – you know this is the only thing that fixes that.”
“I’m not,” I said truthfully. “I just feel like shit, that’s all.”
Clint shrugged. “A panacea,” he mused as he reached into the bag and pulled out another sandwich. Unwrapping it, he took a large bite.
“You know, I think I just need a break,” I said, narrowing my eyes at the huge breakfast sandwich in my hands before taking a bite. It was unhealthy – sinful, almost -- and I could practically feel my arteries clogging with every bite, but damned if it didn’t elevate my mood, at least slightly.
“You thinking of changing it up, Ulrich?” Clint asked. He leaned back in his chair and belched loudly.
“Not necessarily,” I told him. Even though Clint was my oldest – and best – friend in the world, talking about personal stuff with him didn’t come easily. Maybe it was because I’d been raised by cold Russian dignitaries: my parents certainly weren’t the warm and fuzzy types. Men didn’t have feelings, much less talk about them.
It was just another thing that made me feel truly isolated from the rest of the world.
“Well, what then?” Clint asked. Normally, he didn’t push me, but I could tell that he sensed something was truly wrong. I wasn’t about to confess the fact that I still thought about Harper, though.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Probably just a vacation.”
Clint finished his sandwich and wiped his hands on his dark jeans. Unlike me, Clint was the opposite of fastidious when it came to clothes. I had an entire closet full of Armani and Yeezy, and Clint wore the same jeans and hoodie everywhere. That wasn’t the only difference between us: although he was in the sports industry, Clint was married with two kids and a third on the way. He was Mr. Family Man, where I was more or less a career bachelor. We should have gotten along like oil and water but we’d met years ago at a conference and ever since then, we’d been tight. Clint said that I reminded him of what it was like to be single when he needed a break, and he kept me reined in when I felt like plunging off the deep end.
All in all, he was a good friend.
“What do your parents think about that?” Clint asked casually.
I narrowed my eyes and frowned, setting the rest of my breakfast down on the table.
“You know what they want,” I said. “They want me to quit and get married and have a family and float on my trust fund for the rest of my life. Oh, and have a bunch of kids and name them all the damn family names.”
Clint snorted. “It’s not bad,” he said. “The getting married and having kids part.”
“You got lucky,” I said. “That isn’t for me – you know that.”
Sometimes, I had to admit that the thought was tempting. Not marriage and kids, but the thought of giving up the stressful career I’d worked so hard for and just coasting.
Then again, if I did that, I’d be bored stiff in two weeks. I’d be the kind of guy who jetted off to Cambodia and lived on the beach in a shack, growing a beard and a tan and making friends with the sunburnt Dutch tourists.