Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 83070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“So where did you work today?” she asks. “I thought you had Wednesdays off now.”
“Oh, I did have Wednesdays off but not anymore. I found another client.”
“That’s great, Carys!”
I bite my bottom lip to keep from giggling. “You will never guess who I’m working for now.”
“Then just tell me.”
“It’s not a big deal.” I pause for dramatic flair. “Just Gannon Brewer.”
“Shut up.”
I laugh, leaning against the countertop.
“Shut. Up,” she says again. “You’re lying to me.”
“I’m not.”
“What? How? When did this happen, and why haven’t you told me?”
“I was in Tate’s office the other day, and it’s a long story. Basically, I spilled my latte all over Gannon and begged him to hire me. And then he invited me to breakfast—”
“What?”
“So I met him at Tapo’s for a business meeting.”
“When? Oh my God, Carys! You’ve been holding out on me. You’ve been having a rendezvous with arguably the hottest man in the universe, and you didn’t tell me?”
I laugh, my cheeks aching. Courtney has experienced the Brewer hotness firsthand. Let’s hope she doesn’t want a shot at Gannon, too. She’s definitely more his taste.
“Explain, woman,” she says. “Give me all the details.”
“There’s not really a ton of details to give. It’s not like I’m dating him for crying out loud.”
“Um, you had breakfast with the man. Business meetings happen at lunch. Does Tate know this?”
I shove away from the counter and make my way up the staircase.
“Yes, Tate knows about this because it’s no big deal,” I say, although a giddiness creeps through me. “I didn’t even see Gannon today. It’s not like I’m working in his office or something. He just hired me.”
“Listen to me, lady. You’re so full of shit you obviously can’t see clearly.”
I burst out laughing. “That’s disgusting.”
“Gannon Brewer doesn’t talk to mere mortals like us,” she says, ignoring my interjection. “I don’t even think I’ve seen the man smile. Not that I particularly need to see him smile. I can ride his face with a frown just as well as I can with a grin.”
“Oh my gosh, Court.”
“You know you would, too.”
Yes, I freaking would. I open my bedroom door and go inside, flopping on my bed.
“Dammit,” she hisses. “I have to go. My boss is calling. I’ll be calling you back for details.”
“Bye, Court,” I say, teasing her.
“I hate you.”
I laugh as she hangs up on me.
Rolling over onto my stomach, I pull up my favorite food delivery service and order a pizza. Nothing like grocery shopping to make you not want to cook.
Just before I toss my phone onto the nightstand before grabbing a shower, it buzzes.
Tate: I need your help.
His four words make me roll my eyes. Still, seeing his name on my screen makes me happy. Besides a quick text exchange yesterday to see how things were going, we haven’t really touched base. Although I miss him, I’m kind of glad for the radio silence. I’m not sure what I’d say about Gannon if pressed on the subject, and I’ll need to be careful about it.
Me: Have you ever heard the fable about the boy who cried wolf?
Tate: My mom wasn’t the story time kind of mom.
Me: In that story, a little boy yells all the time that he sees a wolf. But he’s lying. One day, a wolf really does show up in their little town, and he starts screaming, and do you know what happens?
Tate: The wolf eats him.
Me: NO ONE COMES.
Tate: So I was right.
Me: That’s not the point.
Tate: What’s the point?
“Read between the lines, Tate,” I groan.
Me: The point is when you start a message with “I need your help” so often and never actually need anything serious that one day you’ll really need something, and I’ll think you’re being goofy again and ignore you.
Tate: Are you done?
Me:
Tate: Good. Now, back to my problem. I’m going to send you two pictures. Tell me which one is better for Social.
Me: OMG
Tate: I haven’t even sent them yet. But I do love the support.
Me: You’re misreading my reaction.
Chirp! Chirp!
Two pictures appear in my inbox. Both of them are of Tate shirtless.
The first one has him posed in front of a stove with a spatula in his hand like he’s been cooking something. Anyone who knows him will know that’s not true. I’m surprised he knows where the kitchen is in his house.
The second picture is of Tate standing in his closet. His grin is a little cheekier and his hair more tousled as if he just got out of bed.
Me: There are so many women who would love this job. Why can’t you pick one of them?
Tate: Pick.
Me: If you’re looking for flirty comments that probably don’t even make sense—like, come make me breakfast, baby—pick the first one. Go with number two if you’re just wanting women to tell you that you’re hot.