Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83190 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“I mean it,” his fingers lightly caress hers, “you look extra beautiful with your hair like that.”
What can I say?
When you’ve spent as much time behind the bar as I have, you pick up on a few things.
And you learn a few things not to ever fucking do.
“Don’t you have an office to be working in, Julian?” Margot states on a huff, catching them both off guard given the way they scramble apart. “The nice one with the big window and private bathroom at the opposite end of this floor?” Her snarky grin is given at the same time she folds her arms in a motherly fashion. “The one given to you when you became the CFO because you finally got the credit you deserve for the work you were doing, work that it seems you’re not doing now because you’re too busy trying to build a sexual harassment case for the new hire.”
He clears his throat, innocently surrenders his hands, and speed walks past me, heading for what I presume is his office.
Harlow’s assistant—and Geoffrey’s apparent nemesis—tosses Amaryllis a look of disapproval. “Interoffice fraternization is a fireable offense. You wanna play Russian Roulette with your career? That’s fine. You’re off to a fantastic start. You wanna last longer than the fling you just thought about having?” Her chin tips to the now ringing phone. “I suggest you answer that.”
Fuck man.
It’s like if a rottweiler could speak and wear heels.
Amaryllis drops her attention to her desk and immediately takes the call while the terrifying woman I’ve heard more about than actually ever encountered relocates her glare to me. She simply points her index finger my direction, turns it to face upward, and motions it twice to summon me from the odd shaped chair I’ve been waiting in over to where she’s standing.
Doing my best to get to her in a timely nature results in me tripping over the only nice pair of shoes I own—aka my least beat up pair of Chucks—and almost face planting into the edge of Amaryllis’s desk.
The receptionist cringes.
The human guard dog cringes.
Even the janitor getting off the nearby elevator cringes.
And he’s wearing a goddamn green jumpsuit!
I swear to God this shit better not be a pre-game shot of what’s coming next.
I can’t win over Harlow Hennington, the NHL’s ice princess, like this!
I couldn’t even win over a hot and needy down to clown with anything that doesn’t frown just turned twenty-one sorority chick in this condition.
Collecting my composure includes a small rearrangement to my open white-collar button up shirt and a minor adjustment to my cuffed khakis that I haven’t worn since my first interview at the pub. Once I’m certain I look more put together, I use my flower wielding hand to gesture towards the hallway I assume we’re headed down. “This way?”
“Mmhm,” Margot hums and sharply turns to resume leading the journey.
A few steps away from the desk, I casually ask, “You’re Margot, right? One of her best friends?”
“I’m the one responsible for keeping her alive,” she answers in a matter-of-fact tone, stride swift, in spite of the stilettos she’s strutting in. “Letty is responsible for keeping her out of jail—even if she is often the reason Hennington gets close to ending up there.” A small bottle is removed from her pocket, but the action doesn’t break her pace. “And the crumpet eating Krampus you call your boss is the one responsible for keeping her choices in…companionship,” her eyes cut me a judgmental glance, “good and plenty and disgusting just like the candy.”
Did she just basically say Geoffrey was a pimp?
Is she calling me a ho?
Wait.
Did she just call me fucking gross?
Her abrupt halting at the end of the hall not only prevents me from being able to ask any follow up questions, it has me damn near tripping over my own feet again. Another glare of disapproval is delivered prior to two knocks on the door. Afterward, she pushes the brown block cade open, waves a hand for me to enter, and cleans her hand with the antibacterial gel she just fished out of her pocket.
I swallow my nervousness and step inside to come face to face with my wife for the first time in weeks. While I expect her to look good, I don’t expect her to surpass the beauty I’ve been repeatedly staring at on my cell.
And yet she does.
She somehow looks even more stunning.
Damn near fucking perfect.
Her long dark locks are pinned up as high as they can go on top of her head. Her baby blue jacket has its sleeves rolled up and is unbuttoned so that the world can see her stomach in the white crop top undershirt. Her pants appear high waisted however much more casual than the attack mutt who escorted me in here. She looks professional, yeah, but she also looks like one high heel ditch away from dominating whatever indoor sport she’s been challenged to compete in.