Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
“There, now. It’s just us.”
His eyes pointedly sweep across the diners filling the tables behind ours, contradicting me. Fine. We aren’t absolutely alone, but there’s no one at the table directly adjacent to ours, and with all the chatter and clinking silverware, our conversation is relatively private. This wouldn’t be my first choice of an interview location, sure, but it’ll have to do. The odds of getting Phillip to agree to . . . well, anything are slim to none. For all I know, this is the last time I’ll see him for the entire voyage. I have an idea that, given the choice, he’d happily throw me overboard.
“I’m not giving you an interview.”
“Fine . . . no interview this morning.” I sound light and chipper. My sweet smile says I’m not bothered in the least. “That’s perfectly okay. I still think it’d be prudent to get the basics out of the way, though—our location, your physical appearance . . . details I might forget later.”
The curl of his lips tells me he finds this particularly amusing. As if I could possibly forget the way he looks.
Right. So he knows he’s attractive. How maddening.
I expect another roadblock here. I mean, with how rude he’s been so far, it wouldn’t be all that far fetched to imagine him picking up my phone and tossing it clear across the room. Or better yet, over the side of the ship.
He remains mum, though, tucking into his breakfast with all the practiced grace of a man used to fine dining. No confusion over forks for this guy. He’s ordered an omelet and breakfast potatoes that look to be seasoned and cooked to perfection. My stomach growls, and I ignore it. The waiter hasn’t come back yet with my to-go latte.
Maybe it’s wishful thinking on my part, but I get the impression Phillip isn’t sure what he wants to do with me. After all, he’d only have to lift a finger, and security would be all too happy to haul me out of here.
The fact that he’s letting me sit here is a small victory in itself.
I should build upon it.
Unfortunately, it’s not how I’m wired.
Something in me just wants to needle him. Always. It’s too tempting. The stuffy boardroom appearance. The sharpness in his elegant features. I want to ruffle his feathers, wrinkle his shirt, make him laugh.
I press record again and lean down, speaking directly into my phone.
“It’s Monday, a little past nine. I’m sitting across from Phillip Woodmont, who seems to be in a surly mood this morning.”
He exhales a small grunt and reaches for his coffee. Black. No room for cream or sugar in his overflowing cup.
“We’re on board Aurelia. Ship details to follow. Phillip—”
His eyes cut into me.
“Er . . . Mr. Woodmont will sit for an interview another time.”
“No, I won’t.”
Spurred on by his obstinance, I start talking like I would if he weren’t listening. “His suit looks designer. I have no doubt he employs a stylist. The watch on his wrist, while beautiful, could probably feed a bevy of orphans. Would his wealth be better spent on charity? More on that later. His appearance . . .”
My mouth goes dry. I refuse to gift him the truth about his face and all the annoying beauty it contains, so I move right along to his head of thick dark-brown hair.
“Well, it’s clear he went for the billionaire hair-plug special. Perhaps he got a referral from Elon Musk?”
Phillip reaches forward and pauses the recording with a deft finger. “This is my natural hair.”
I restart the recording, leaning down and lowering my voice even further, teasing. “He seems particularly defensive of his hairline. Investigate further.”
At this point, he’s lost the battle with his smile, and though I should be ticking a tally beside my name for having succeeded, I can do nothing but stare, a little slack jawed as if I’ve just had the wind knocked out of me. Phillip was handsome enough sporting a frown and furrowed brow, but it pales in comparison to the absolute devastation his smile wreaks on me.
An oversight I can’t repeat because he sees it—the momentary lapse in my defenses. The effect he has on me.
Dammit.
I’m sitting on the edge of my seat, waiting for his return blow, when a voice speaks behind me.
“I thought you were going to save me a seat this morning.”
I turn to see Phillip’s friend Tyson aiming a charming smile my way. He’s dressed just as nicely as Phillip, and I feel slightly out of my element in my sundress and bikini. Silly me for dressing for a tropical vacation when I should have slipped into my finest pantsuit.
“She sat down without asking first,” Phillip says rudely. “Here, let me tip her out of it for you.”
He stands up as if to act on his words, and I find myself gripping ahold of the cushion. Childish doesn’t begin to cover how we’re acting. It seems we’ve reverted right back to middle school.