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)
She’s a better person than I’ll ever be, thank hell.
Because if she quits now, we’ll be screwed seven ways from Sunday.
Because of all the times Grandma could’ve decided to retire, she chose now.
Now.
When everything she and Grandpa worked their whole lives for is on the line.
If this deal doesn’t go through, it’s going to be ratcheted into my conscience forever. An ink stain on my soul.
No one expects Nick to be the problem solver. That’s my job.
He gets to be the funny man, the less broody one, the guy who comes rushing in to help save the day at the last second.
I oversleep by an hour the next morning. I don’t want to go in and deal with the storm of questions I’m sure to be barraged with today.
I purposely had Paige revise and send the email yesterday to buy myself time, but it can’t be put off any longer. Today, I’m facing destiny and all its dragon teeth.
By the time I make it downstairs to the Lincoln, Reese has been waiting roughly an hour. “I’m sorry, Reese. Slow morning.”
“I get paid either way.”
We’re almost to the office when I notice she hasn’t said anything else.
“You’re quiet today. None of your usual crap?”
She forces a smile. “Good morning to you, too.”
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
“I’m just tired.” She fakes a yawn.
“You read the email?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Relax, Reese. Nothing’s going to change.”
She nods dully and pulls up to the doorman.
The office is quieter than a tomb.
Paige is glued to her seat, fingers flying across her keyboard, pretty green eyes focused on the screen. I stop at her desk and lean in. “Order breakfast for the office. Everyone. Hurry.”
“What do you want me to order?”
“Whatever you think people like. Spare no expense,” I tell her.
She nods again and moves her mouse. Her icy silence is harder to take, but I can’t dwell on that shit just now.
An hour and a half later, I come out to check on breakfast. She’s ordered a nice spread of pastries and bagels with all the fixings from Sweeter Grind, a popular Chicago café. Their creations are too sweet for me, but apparently the flavors of Heart’s Edge, Montana, are a pleaser with the staff.
It looks a little less like we’re overseeing a funeral parlor, at least.
Paige clutches a Sweeter Grind cup at her desk.
“Thank you for ordering breakfast,” I say.
She nods.
Goddammit, woman. Talk to me.
It’s not my fault, and I don’t like this any better than anyone else. I think I hate it more than everyone else in this office.
It puts a hell of a lot more pressure on me than them.
“What are you drinking?” I ask, clearing my throat.
“Just something my friend used to order for me before she got married and abandoned me to the single life.” She takes a long slurp, brutalizing me with those lips I can still taste.
I force back a chuckle, and something more feral at the thought of her being single.
“What is it?” I ask, pinning my eyes to her cup.
She offers it to me. “You can try it, but I don’t think you’ll like it.”
“What is it?” I ask again.
“Cinnamon latte, my best friend’s favorite drink.” She stops, and I can hear memories cascading in her laughter. “Anytime I had a bad day, Brina used to bring home two. Oh, and a whole box of Heart’s Edge truffles.”
“Are you having a bad day?”
What do I care? We’re all having a bad day under this constant stress pressure cooker.
This girl is not my business.
I’d do well to remember it and hit the Everest pile of crap I have to figure out now.
Paige meets my eyes, glances across the empty hallway, frowns, and her eyes fall to mine again.
“I’ve had worse days since I started here,” she says.
Another pointed jab at me that’s about as subtle as hot coffee to the face.
Damn her. Rather than get into another fencing match, I turn my back and stomp away.
It’s lunch before I hear from her again.
She doesn’t knock, just sails through my office door and folds into the chair in front of my desk. When she sits, the black-and-silver dress she wears dips a little, exposing more cleavage than my eyes need.
I can feel my sanity slipping, and I swallow what feels like a piece of raw cactus lodged in my throat.
“I took this job to work with her, Ward,” she starts.
Fuck.
I stiffen in my seat.
“You’re not quitting on me, are you?”
She shakes her head. “I won’t do that. I’m not going to let her down. But is she okay? Why isn’t she coming back?”
I push my laptop away and tent my fingers, wondering where the hell to begin. I don’t even fully understand it myself.
“Grandma constantly joked about retiring a few years ago. Nobody took her seriously. This place has been her life, her muse, her home. She called us over for tea yesterday afternoon and—”