Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 151430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151430 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Oh, I’d like to slap him, or do—other things.
Rough things I’ve wanted to do since the night I met him in the art museum and he started calling me a drunk like the cruel dolt he is. But I need this job, so...
All I can do is shine his freaking toys and nod, hoping I’m just imagining his eyes undressing me as I work, and I conjure up every unsexy thought in the universe.
Furnace outages in winter. Rotten fruit baskets. Saggy old billionaires in boudoir photos.
Only, somehow Ross Winthrope’s skin tightens in my head. His face morphs into a bearded halo, an immaculate chin, and thick hair screaming for my fingers, all perched on a titan’s body belonging to Ward Brandt.
Argh.
At least I don’t have to smile about it.
I save Ward’s glass case against the wall for last, hoping he’ll go get his stupid coffee, or have a meeting or something, so he’s not there while I am.
No such luck.
He’s sitting at his desk with his coat off now. His sleeves are rolled up and my eyes can’t help but wander.
His arms. They’re big, taut with muscles, corded in a way that says he didn’t get those guns in the gym. His head tilts down as he reviews a file. He can’t see me taking in the view.
His suspenders line that hard slab of a chest like fine licorice-black ribbons.
I bite my lip to keep from giggling.
Nerd. Who wears suspenders in the 2020s?
Unfortunately, that nerd. The one who happens to make suspenders ridiculously sexy.
A tattoo ripples under his rolled sleeve, but I can’t make out what it is, only dark ink. He stretches his arm, reaching for another file, and the sleeve comes up.
It’s an eagle crossed with barbed wire.
Whoa. Hardcore.
Ward has a military background, apparently. That might partly explain why he’s such a raging hardass.
Guess it’s par for the course when you’re sporting the whole lady-killer package.
Stoic attitude. Rock-hard body. Bitter black coffee attitude.
He lifts his head and meets my gaze with those summer eyes from Hades’ pool. He lifts an eyebrow, as if to say, well? What are you waiting for?
Send help.
Blood rushes to my cheeks. I spin around to face the display case and start dusting like my life depends on it. Honestly, it might.
The Warden chuckles behind me. It’s a dark, deep rumble like bass in my ears, vibrating through me.
“Are you well, Miss Holly?” he asks.
“Never better,” I force out.
“Then why are you so red?”
I wave my hand in front of my face and say the first thing that comes to mind.
“Sunburn.”
“Oh, you must have gone out at lunch. I didn’t notice it was that hot earlier.”
Technically, the burning heat is confined to this room.
The more annoying he gets, the more the fire in my face subsides. When I’m confident I’m not morphing into a lobster anymore, I face him.
“So, do you spend a lot of time looking at me?”
“No—I—you’re hard to miss,” he snaps off. “Your office is in the lobby. You’re my assistant. How the hell could I miss you?”
“Oh, okay,” I say with a hint of sarcasm.
“I’m serious. You’re—” He pauses, a scowl on his face, struggling to find the words.
It’s cute when he’s forced to be tactful.
I smile. Sometimes keeping a straight face with this guy is the hardest part of the job.
“Mr. Brandt, I understand. I just need to get back to work, okay?”
He glares at me, his eyes napalm pools. “Give them a second dusting. Please.”
Holy crap. He said the magic word. First time I’ve ever seen it in his vocabulary.
“I’d be happy to, if you can tell me where to find a refill head for the duster. Since I’m not on the janitorial staff, I don’t have access to cleaning supplies,” I say sweetly.
“Just get out of here,” he growls.
“But how will your models be dusted then?”
He stands and waves his arm at the door, his face so tight, so conflicted.
“Miss Holly, go.”
Lordy, he’s sizzle when he’s mad.
I close the door behind me and make it to my desk before I laugh. Not only did I best him—again—I got out of dusting more models.
Score.
Nick’s the first to leave that evening. He doesn’t even wait until four. The guy’s a one-eighty to his brother, a total rake, but he doesn’t have a serious bone in his body.
He’s fun. I like him.
Beatrice, whom I love the most, goes next. She says she’s been a little tired lately and thinks she should rest. So I’m left alone with the third of the equation I despise.
At eight o’clock, that third comes out of his office to torment me.
“Why are you still here?”
“Hello to you, too. I’m looking for errors in your grandmother’s latest design.” I glare at him. “I might have finished earlier, but someone decided they needed their models dusted today.”
“Just go home already. Grandma’s designs have no flaws,” he says.