Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 147415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 737(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 491(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 737(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 491(@300wpm)
“Oh. Yeah, I decided to pull the best parts from the interview and sprinkle them in,” I say, bringing up the notes, which I transcribed late last night over blueberry tea.
He leans in, close enough to punch me in the face with his cologne, mumbling as he reads.
“Wow. Did she really lose a couple fingers to frostbite going after sea lions?”
I flick my mouse at the photo of Hollens waving, her two missing digits clear as day.
“It was an accident. They ventured too far in an arctic storm. She thought the sea lions were close enough to their camp, but they wandered too far and the wind picked up. It’s like a maze out there and they lost their way. They’re lucky they survived before search and rescue came and nope, no sea lions.”
“Yikes! Talk about a sacrifice for science.” He smiles awkwardly like it’s the funniest thing ever before he notices I’m not laughing. “Uh, shouldn’t that be closer to the front, Dess? It’s a pretty compelling story.”
I suppose he has a point.
“I’ll move things around, yeah. Anything else?” I force a smile, so ready to be left alone.
“Nah, I’m good. Just chiming in to help you out.” He gives me a look like a kicked puppy.
“Thanks, Mark. You’ve put me on the right track and I can take it from here.”
As soon as he shuffles away, I look at the clock.
Barely one p.m.
Ugh.
I knead my knuckles into my eyes until I see stars.
I’m doing the best with what I have.
I had to go begging Carol for help so she’d give me the templates. I did all the research myself, put it together with references.
My interview with Debra Hollens was pure luck, and it was possibly the shortest interview ever. Fortunately, she has a way with words and sharing her life. She’s the type of person where everything they say is interesting.
But her frostbitten tragedy is perfect proof of the many ways this would help conservation efforts—not just the animals, but human researchers.
I’m hoping—no, praying—that it’ll help my case.
With Shepherd Foster, there’s no room for error.
The one mistake he made with that actress has him more strung out than ever.
Also, after more digging around online and getting more details about the woman he supposedly dumped, I think I know why he’s avoiding me.
Vanessa Dumas has a sizable online presence.
Her Instagram following—never mind her TikTok and Facebook page—has ballooned into six figures ever since she came out publicly about the big bad crimes he apparently committed.
It’s not my place to judge, but... she doesn’t look hurt.
She looks like she’s thriving off the attention.
I mean, if I were in Foster’s shoes, I might develop an unhealthy fear of attractive women too. Is that the real reason why he’s avoiding me?
I’m almost sad if it is, if he thinks I’d pull a Dumas.
Besides, he’s not that hot.
Not lose-my-mind-over-him hot.
Obviously, I have eyes and a pulse so I can see he’s attractive. I get why gobs of women might have a crush on him.
They aren’t me.
I’ve been around rich assholes my whole life, and I’d like to think it’s made me immune to the toxic personalities buried behind their outer charms.
And I hate to admit it, but he’s definitely hot enough for someone else to lose their wits.
It shouldn’t be humanly possible for a man so cold to be scorching—but the fact that he’s so forbidding and imposing makes him more attractive.
It’s like a law of physics Newton forgot to cover, wealthy assholes and their animal magnetism.
Foster is a piece of forbidden fruit with arms and legs like tree trunks.
Raw temptation wrapped up in a pretty package, just out of reach.
But that’s not what I’m here for.
I didn’t apply for this gig so Mr. CEO could ghost me and I could waste my time away, stuck on his deliriously good looks.
God, am I as immune as I think?
I shouldn’t have even noticed between all the sniping we’ve done.
He was too busy glaring for me to pay much attention to anything except for the fact that someone apparently set his eyes on fire.
Blue flame. Searingly hot.
Just like the rest of him.
I almost thunk my head down on my laptop. Only Mark watching me curiously from the other side of the desk keeps me from embarrassing myself to death.
“Not going well?” he asks sympathetically.
No.
No, it’s not going well at all.
I’m hung up on the fact that my hot boss is ignoring me instead of just finalizing this dumb proposal and letting fate do the rest.
It can’t be daddy issues.
If anything, the whole dead mother thing should’ve left me with an unhealthy mess of mommy issues instead.
Dad, like Foster, was an infamous grump before Eliza wore him down with her delicious pastries, coffee creations, and sunny smiles.
But Dad’s special.
He raised me, and no matter what, he always showed more warmth at his coldest than Foster.