Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
“No, no.” Her eyes widen in alarm at the suggestion that I should leave. “It’s no trouble at all, promise. I can’t imagine he’d be pleased if you left without saying hello,” she adds, another smile on her face.
Uh. Okay. I can’t imagine he’s gonna be pleased when I give him a piece of my mind, but hell, I’m already here.
The doors slide open and a man around Sawyer’s age steps on. He’s in jeans and a button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled back and shoved up to the elbow, a stark contrast to Sandra’s attire. Probably a tech nerd. They always get away with casual attire in the workplace. Hot though. He’s wearing chunky nerd glasses that frame his face perfectly. Well, at least now I don’t feel so out of place in my distressed jeans tucked into a pair of boots. No, not the boots. Not that I sent them back, but I haven’t worn them. Besides, it’s supposed to snow today, which sadly requires Lands’ End, not Louboutin.
“Sandra,” the man greets her and gives me a little nod.
“Mr. Laurent,” she returns, but her voice sounds different than it did a moment ago. Reverent. Maybe the guy’s important. But there’s something more, I suspect. I eye her and watch as her gaze drops to his ass when he reaches out to punch a floor on the control panel. Oh! She is totally into the hot tech nerd! I wonder if I can help. I do love helping.
The doors slide closed and the elevator is again ascending, this time into a cloud of awkward silence. They really do need my help.
“Sandra, I love your shoes,” I say, glancing down. But I’m not looking at her shoes. I tilt my head as if I am, but it’s just a ruse so I can see if this Mr. Laurent takes the opportunity to check out her legs while we’re both distracted looking at her shoes.
He does. Which most any guy would—she’s got fabulous legs. But his gaze lingers a moment longer than necessary and then he swallows and clears his throat. It’s subtle. No way Sandra is catching this, but I am. I verify that he is ring free and then, satisfied, I tuck the information away until I can use it. This day is really turning around.
Twenty-Three
The elevator stops and we exit, Mr. Laurent doing that thing men do, holding the elevator door open for us as if it’s capable of squashing us to death if not for them holding back the doors. It’s nice, plus I’m sure it gives him the opportunity to check out Sandra’s ass. Win, win.
“Is Sawyer still in the Chesterfield meeting?” Mr. Laurent pauses outside the elevator, directing the question to Sandra.
“Yes, sir. They’re in the Langhorne conference room.”
The corner of his mouth arcs in the smallest smirk at her use of the word ‘sir.’ “You’ve worked here for two years, Sandra. I believe I’ve mentioned you can call me Gabe?”
Her eyes widen and she nods, but when she speaks it’s with fake confidence. “Of course!” And then with the smallest lift of her head, she says, “Gabe.”
He looks at her a second longer, then nods and heads in the opposite direction from us.
Sandra guides me to the right, down a wide hallway and past a glass-walled conference room before I can’t contain myself any longer.
“Two years?” We’re walking at a very efficient pace down the hall, Sandra’s ponytail swishing with each step.
Her steps don’t falter but her head turns in my direction and she asks, “Pardon?”
“That”—I point to her and then point in the direction that Gabe disappeared in—“has been going on for two years?” I’m incredulous. There is no way that has been simmering for two years, unfulfilled.
She blinks rapidly and opens her mouth to speak, then closes it. “I’m sorry?” she tries, clearly out of her element in how to respond to an Everly-style inquisition. The hallway ends at a corner, with another wide hallway leading across the building, but we stop here and step into a foyer of sorts. There’s a desk—I’m assuming it’s hers based on a quick glance around. A sweater hangs over the back of the chair and a pink notepad sits on the desk. Two chairs are placed across from the desk and a small couch stands along the wall near a set of open double doors that I assume lead to Sawyer’s office. Pretty fancy stuff.
“May I take your jacket?” she asks, and I slip it off and hand it to her and pull down the sleeves of my sweater to the tops of my fingers. Sandra hangs my coat in a closet near the door, and then offers me a seat.
“You can wait here,” she says, turning back to me. She offers to get me a drink, I insist I don’t need anything and then she’s off, promising to let Sawyer know I’m here but reiterating that he is in a meeting so please be patient.