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)
“Phillip, let her keep her seat. Look, here’s another one coming.”
A uniformed waiter is hurrying over with a chair for Tyson. He sets it down at our table, and then behind him, two more waiters arrive with a charger, coordinating china, silverware, and a crystal glass. The whole production is so coordinated it’s like they’ve practiced a thousand times. They might have.
“Will you be having coffee this morning, Mr. Ackres?” one of them asks.
“Yes, please. Fill it up so high you’re scared it’ll spill over. Better yet, just leave me the pot.”
The waiter’s head dips in a reverent nod before he rushes off. The original waiter comes back with my latte—in a to-go cup, the lid placed to the side—and asks me and Tyson what we would like to order.
I hadn’t even gotten a chance to look at the menu. I didn’t think I was going to make it this far. I half expect Phillip to cut in and tell them not to bother with food, that I’ll be dining elsewhere.
“Are you a vegetarian, Ms. Hughes?” Tyson asks, trying to smooth down the tension radiating off his friend.
“No.”
He nods in confirmation, then turns to address the waiter. “Then we’ll each take the sunrise omelet. Potatoes and fruit on the side, please.”
“Pancakes,” I whisper.
He chuckles. “And a side of pancakes for both of us. Lots of syrup.”
I smile at him, and he smiles back. He’s so welcoming and friendly.
The happy mood is cut short, of course, the moment my gaze shifts back to Phillip. He’s such a black cloud—all that frustration evident in his furrowed brow.
“Seems you won’t be getting rid of me quite so easily this morning.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
I look to Tyson. “Do you see what I have to deal with? I’ve been nothing but kind this morning, I assure you. He’s the problem.”
Tyson’s clearly amused as he replies, “He explained the circumstances to me. Apparently, there’s bad blood between you two.”
“’Fraid so. Think you could broker peace?”
He puffs out an exhausted sigh. “I’m not that good, I’m afraid. Phillip is a much better negotiator.”
I tilt my head at Phillip. “Truly? I have a hard time believing that.”
“Drink your latte, Ms. Hughes,” Phillip says by way of ending the discussion.
Like a good girl, I pick up my latte with its intricate foamed-milk design—I swear it’s a tiny version of Aurelia, absurd—and I take a long, pointed sip, holding eye contact with Phillip while I do it. There, now I’ve done what you asked. You can’t be mad about that.
I don’t know why I’ve found myself here, going up against a man positively dripping with power. I’m awfully confident for a person who has no arsenal to speak of, no ally, just a lowly fact-checker title and nothing to lose, I suppose.
Phillip’s gaze never wavers. He watches me lift the mug to my lips, and then his gaze drops to my throat as I swallow. I lick the bit of foam from the corner of my mouth and brush my lips together. It’s the most mundane thing—just a sip of coffee—and yet for some reason, I find it’s turned into something so heated that my body hums with excitement. I recognize what it is: innate, obvious attraction. Oh fuck. It’s so, so inconvenient to feel that zing. The sort that feels inevitable and deep. The kind of thing that digs its talons into you.
It’s one thing to acknowledge that Phillip is objectively handsome. Poll the US population and everyone would agree: he’s a grade A hottie. Attraction is different, though. Chemical.
Tyson clears his throat.
I set my latte back on the table.
“Tell me what I should do to win him over,” I say, talking to Tyson, though I’m looking at Phillip.
“I doubt you can,” Tyson replies truthfully.
My brow arches.
“Ah. ‘My good opinion once lost is lost forever,’” I say, quoting from Jane Austen.
Phillip’s mouth quirks like he wants to smile. “Exactly. And don’t you forget it.”
Tyson barks out a laugh. “Easy there, Phillip. She’s our invited guest, remember?”
I give him a gloating, devilish smile. “Yes. See? As your invited guest, I’m untouchable. And don’t you forget it.”
The air crackles as Phillip’s eyes darken. I was absentmindedly stroking the side of my to-go cup, but I yank my hand back and stuff it beneath the table.
The tightness in my belly almost hurts.
That ache of desire is so foreign to me.
I realize what I’ve done a second too late. I came over here with a clear goal: persuade Phillip to give me an interview. Instead, I let him goad me and drag me down to a position I can’t afford to be in (quite literally). Now that I know how easily he strips me of my self-control, my filter, my manners, I’ll have to be more careful with him in the future.
I open my mouth, preparing to offer a proverbial white flag by way of apology, but Phillip drains the last of his coffee and then scoots his chair back, standing so that I’m forced to acknowledge his intimidating size. I feel diminutive sitting in my chair across from him.