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)
I roll to a stop just before the driveway leads between the house on one side and another large building on the other. The patio overhead connects the two like a bridge.
“Where do I go?” I ask, glancing around.
Thankfully, a text buzzes, and I swipe my phone up immediately.
Gannon: Security said you were here. Meeting running long. Park beneath the portico and come in that door. My office is down the hall. First door on your left.
“Great,” I say, pressing the gas slowly. “This won’t be weird or anything.”
I inch my way beneath the portico until I spot the door Gannon mentioned. I place the car in park, get out, and lock it.
“You’re getting fucked tonight.”
Excitement sweeps through me as I walk to the door. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. Not bad.
I had no idea what to wear to a fucking appointment, but I didn’t want too much fabric to get in the way. I’ve waited for this for far too long to fumble with pants. So I chose a short, beaded tangerine skirt, a tight white top with a built-in bra that hits at my navel, and gold heels that aren’t nearly as high as the pair I wore to Courtney’s party. Big hoop earrings look great with my messy updo and sun-kissed makeup.
Gannon will approve.
It takes a bit of effort to pull the door open. It also takes effort to step inside the house.
Wow. I blink, taking it all in as the door shuts behind me. This is incredible.
The design is bright and airy, with light flooring and creamy-colored walls. The chandelier overhead is massive with reflective crystals dangling from all sides. A large piece of art faces the door with splashes of blues, grays, and pale yellows.
A living room is off to my right, and a hallway extends ahead.
My office is down the hall. First door on your left.
Anticipation blooms in my belly as my heels tap against the floor. My skin is already hot and tight, threatening to explode if I don’t find a release to the pent-up energy I’ve corralled for days. A whiff of my perfume floats through the air as I peek into the room on my left.
All the air in my body exhales in one shaky breath.
Gannon sits at a large wooden desk that faces the door, but his focus is on a computer monitor. He has earbuds in his ears, and he’s still dressed in the suit from earlier, sans jacket. His hair looks as if he’s run his fingers through it a million times.
I can’t wait until it’s my turn to do that.
His head whips up as I move to fill the doorway.
I lift my hand and wiggle my fingers in a simple wave.
The corners of his lips twitch. He sits back, looking relieved, then he clicks a button on his keyboard.
“Hey,” he says, smiling at me.
“Hey yourself.
“This shouldn’t take much longer.”
“I don’t want to interrupt you.”
He shakes his head. “I have them on mute, so it’s fine. I’ll wrap this up as fast as I can.”
“No worries.”
He nods, then presses the button again. His brows pull together as his attention goes back to the computer. “That’s a bunch of bullshit, Charlie, and you know it. There’s no way in hell we’ll ever agree to that.”
Poor Charlie.
I toss my purse onto a chair and look around the room. Bookshelves line the wall on my left, a framed TV is mounted in the center of the opposing wall, and behind me are two chairs on one side of the door and a chaise lounge on the other.
“You can try that, but you’ll fail,” Gannon says. “If you want to waste your time, be my guest. But we’re not paying for it.” He pauses, then laughs angrily. “I’m not fucking playing.”
That’s so hot.
Gannon gives Charlie, the poor guy, a lecture to end all lectures. I listen for a while but lose interest.
His library catches my attention, so I move closer to check out the titles lining the shelves. The first section is stuffed with business-y titles about mergers and contracts and strategies. The next is filled with classics. The Catcher in the Rye. The Great Gatsby. The Iliad, Lord of the Flies, Don Quixote. The last piece is a mixture of poetry, self-help, and … is that a romance novel?
I bend over to inspect the black-and-pink spine. Love Hurts is written in white block lettering. I pull it off the shelf, then turn around—and stop in my tracks.
Gannon’s gaze is glued to me.
“What?” I whisper.
A smirk graces his lips.
I look at him, confused, as I walk back to the chair where I threw my purse. As I move, the edge of my skirt rides up my thigh and clarity hits me like a ton of bricks. I don’t have any panties on, and I just bent over in front of him.