Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 103030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103030 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
I think she genuinely was concluding our interaction as if we will never see each other again.
And why would we? We’re two strangers that met in a freak sneeze accident that may be the first of its kind.
But, then again, maybe that was some kind of universe interference? Maybe we were supposed to meet. It certainly feels like it.
I scowl at myself for unearthing this line of thinking. It’s stupid. It’s pointless. It’s a waste of damn time.
My fingers strum against my desktop.
“Are you?” Holt asks, shaking me out of my reverie.
I shift my weight and refocus. “Am I what?”
“Never mind. Obviously, you’re not.”
“Okay. I’m not.”
He laughs, which amplifies my irritation again.
“I heard you had a car wreck yesterday,” he says, a smile buried in the words.
I roll my eyes. “Word travels fast.”
“What can I say? Boone is quick.”
I roll my eyes.
“Naturally, I also know that the woman refused to give you her number,” he goads.
“She was married.”
Even though I don’t know that to be true, it seems like the fastest way to shut him down.
It also makes me feel better.
That one little possibility—that I have no reason to believe due to no mention of a husband and no ring on her finger—is my saving grace. And not just for my ego.
It’s what dampened the burn inside me to find her.
A hand goes to my head and I scratch at my scalp.
I’ve fought all morning not to think about Shaye. Each time she started to slip into my mind, I shoved her right back out. But now that Holt has placed her in the forefront of this conversation, the nugget in my gut that I fought with all night is back.
“You being quiet is concerning,” Holt says.
“Yeah, well …”
I frown.
My thoughts remind me of a hurricane, tumbling over themselves so fast and hard that it’s impossible to make any real sense of it. I don’t know why I keep thinking about her. This isn’t a problem I encounter often. Or ever. I can push a woman out of my brain and focus on work like the CEO that I am.
Sure, she was gorgeous. And funny. And charming in an entertaining kind of way. It also probably didn’t hurt that she didn’t fawn over me. I like a chase as much as the next guy. But, in reality, I’m sure it was just the fact that I’m not sure if she was okay or if she got her car checked.
Yeah. I’m sure that is it.
“I’ll give you a pass,” Holt says. “What are we doing about Greg?”
I blow out a breath. “I don’t know. I think we need to go out there and take a look at the Jewell site and see what he’s overlooking. There has to be a better way to get in and out of there.”
“Probably a good idea. You free around four?”
I fiddle with my keyboard until my screen awakens. My calendar is splashed in front of me. “Yeah.”
“I’ll drive. Meet me in the parking garage at four.”
“Okay.”
“Also,” he says, “I was just in Toni’s office. She’s interviewing a handful of possible assistants this morning for you. I told her to weed them out and send you copies of any of the resumes that might work.”
I open the folder in front of me and take out an invoice. “Yeah. I talked to her this morning.”
“One more thing.” He clears his throat. “The Landry family sent an invitation over on Friday for the annual Landry Charity Gala.”
“Can I just send a check?”
“Negative. Blaire and I are going since her brother, Walker, will be in town for it. That means you have to go too.”
I scan the invoice in front of me. I slap my signature in bold, black ink in the red box, thus approving payment for a new accounting software system.
“You’re the family representative. I think that gives me a pass,” I say.
“This is good press, Ollie.”
“This is a pain in the ass,” I mutter.
He sighs. “It’s Saturday, so make plans. I’ll see you at four.”
The line clicks, and he’s gone.
I glance up at my computer screen as a purple-colored box magically appears on my calendar.
Landry Family Gala—Saturday, 6p.m. EST
“Fucker,” I mumble.
My stomach growls, desperate for something other than more coffee. I check my watch and see that it’s nearly lunchtime.
I toss my pen on my desk and reach for the phone but pause. My hand dangles in the air.
In another time, before the administrative mess in our office, I would’ve asked my assistant to order me lunch. I wouldn’t have to tell her what I wanted or where from. She’d know. But as my gaze flips to the door that separates my office from the reception area, I know that time has passed.
“I can’t work like this,” I say to an empty office. “I need help.”
I grab a mug of cold coffee and march to the door.