Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66074 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
“You think it’s limited to just the city?” He cocked a brow at me, and I shoved off my desk.
“Ew!” I shook out my hands, my entire body covered with the heebie-jeebies. “Stop,” I said, but I couldn’t stop laughing. “That’s so gross.”
He gaped at me, but his eyes were pure tease. “I’ve never had a woman tell me I’m gross.”
“Of course not,” I snapped.
Crossland was gorgeous, there was no denying that, but his model good looks got him into trouble half the time, despite him being upfront with women about what he wanted. Being an owner of an NHL team meant he had money, status, and power. Add his good looks, his quick wit, and that smart mouth of his? It was a recipe for disaster. So much so I often wished he would find a woman that put him in his place and then give him some roots. Something solid to hold onto, because he could play aloof all he wanted, but sometimes—like nights when he showed up with champagne for me just because—I knew he was lonely.
The kind of loneliness that came with having to carry the heavy weight of running a company on your own or an NHL team…and having no one to listen to you vent at the end of the day.
“It’s still gross for me to hear about what you do—”
“Try walking in on it, sis. Then you can judge.”
I clamped my lips shut, barely holding back a smile. “Fair enough.”
Cross pushed off the desk, adjusting his suit jacket. “Despite your serious offense to my looks and manhood,” he said, stopping before me. “Want to grab dinner?”
I blew out a breath, nodding. “If by dinner you mean drinks, then I’m in.”
Cross wrapped an arm around my shoulders as we walked out of the office. “You want to talk about it?” he asked more seriously as we headed for the building exit.
“No,” I said, probably a bit too quickly. “Thank you, though.”
He nodded, and we dipped into the back of his town car. As we drove through the city, I was suddenly so damn grateful Cross had shown up. Because despite the anger Cormac had displayed, I was almost more terrified of what would’ve happened if Cross hadn’t interrupted us. Because Cormac had turned me into a wild, living flame with just his fingers, and I’d been ready to give myself to him completely right there on my office couch.
How mad would Cormac have been then? If he’d let himself open up to the possibility of us, only to regret it the next day?
A cold shiver skated over my skin.
I didn’t need to add that to the already long list of grievances Cormac held me responsible for…
Despite knowing he was worth each and every one.
“How were the responses to the first ad we released?” I asked Angela, who stood by my desk with her iPad.
“Better than we anticipated,” she said, swiping on the screen. “We had a positive response from both male and female demographics and had a significant increase to inquiries and website visits.”
Hope and anticipation bubbled in my chest, but I nodded calmly. “That’s good,” I said. It meant we were right on schedule with creating a buzz around the new line, which was almost ready for mass production.
“Looks like your choice in branding really paid off,” she said, flashing me a smile.
I nodded again, this time my heart sinking just a bit. “Cormac Briggs has the kind of magnetic, electric energy I wanted for the line. I’m thrilled people are responding to it.”
Angela filled me in on a few more business tasks—distributor interests, promo spots, and let me know about where our fabric shipments stood—before heading out of my office to continue with her workload.
“Knock, knock,” Grace said, tapping on my opened doorway.
I instantly brightened at the sight of her and waved her in. “Is it lunchtime already?” I asked, glancing at my watch. My eyes widened.
“Lost track of time again?” she asked, plopping down in the chair across from my desk.
“Sorry,” I said, blowing out a breath. “It’s been a crazy—”
“Ms. McClaren,” Angela’s voice came through on the intercom on my desk phone. “I have the CEO of Silhouette on the line. Should I put her through?”
My lips parted, and I immediately sat up straighter in my chair. I flashed Grace a questioning and apologetic look, but she waved me on with a smile.
“Yes, please,” I said, my fingers shaking as I reached for the phone.
Silhouette was the one of the nation’s leading fashion design magazines, holding neck and neck with the likes of Vogue.
“This is Ms. McClaren,” I answered, donning the business tone I reserved for calls like this.
“Hi, Ms. McClaren, this is Stephanie Broadmore from Silhouette magazine. I was wondering if you had a minute to chat?”
“For Silhouette?” I said. “Always.”