Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98345 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
She steps forward and invites us all to join her.
Everyone else follows after her right away, eager for a good spot during the tour, but I take advantage of the opportunity laid before me. Phillip is momentarily alone, a king without his royal entourage. I doubt I have long. If I hope to get a private word with him this afternoon, this will likely be my only opportunity. It’s a stroke of luck I seize upon quickly, weaving through bodies, beelining straight for Phillip, ignoring the bite of pain as someone accidentally steps on my toes. They apologize, but I throw my own “Sorry!” over my shoulder without breaking stride. Phillip doesn’t see me until I’m upon him, cutting straight into his path, forcing him to stop abruptly before he runs into me.
We’re close. Too close. I’m inches away from his broad chest, and I have to tip my head back to get a good look at him. With a timid laugh of apology, I take a half step back.
His expression doesn’t soften. It’s as if I’m still breaking some kind of social code merely by existing. And I guess I am. Marching over to him was a little uncouth even for me, but there’s no room for social courtesies in journalism. Not if you want to get the story.
I really booked it over here. I’m breathing slightly harder than normal. Also I’m meant to do something. I’ve stalled him; I don’t want it to be in vain.
“Hello, Mr. Woodmont,” I blurt. “I’m Casey Hughes from Bon Voyage magazine. It’s a pleasure to be here, meeting you.”
I stretch out a confident hand, hoping to make the best introduction, or technically reintroduction I possibly can. My smile couldn’t be wider. My eyes shine with hope and opportunity.
His wonderfully spiced cologne is distracting, but then so is everything else about him, specifically his size. He’s not overly bullish or anything, not like a hulking beast. Rather, he’s tall and broad shouldered, and he has a sort of lean stealth to him, a layer of muscle merely hinted at beneath his well-cut suit.
My, my, someone really had a growth spurt . . .
I think I used to be a half inch taller than him.
He’s more intimidating than ever at this proximity, and it’s hard to force a swallow as my hand hangs limply between us. It becomes clear to me, a moment too late, that he isn’t going to accept my hand. He never even contemplated it.
My cheeks burn with embarrassment as he looks me over slowly. His scowl gentles to something more like an amused smile. There’s a joke he’s enjoying, and his expression says it’s at my expense.
He peruses my dress, my shoes, my body with a lackadaisical indifference. When his piercing blue eyes finally deign to meet mine, my stomach squeezes tight. Dread chills me to the bone. I’m surprised I don’t shiver.
He tucks his hands into his suit-pants pockets—the final nail in the handshake coffin—and then replies with a confident air of indifference. “No introduction needed. I remember you, Ms. Hughes.”
His eyes cut past me in dismissal, and I want to shrink away and hide, but I can’t. I have to stick this out, painful as it may be.
“O-of course. Right. You do?” My voice lilts a little with surprise. “I’m flattered, actually. I remember you, but I wasn’t sure, given your success . . .” I’m stammering now, making a fool of myself. “I mean to say, I’m sure you meet so many people in your line of work. So many people eager to make your acquaintance.”
Yes! Flatter him! Stroke his ego into submission!
“I do meet a lot of people.” His eyes recapture mine, and I feel like I’m staring straight into the barrel of a sniper rifle. “Fortunately, I’m good at remembering the assholes.”
Assholes!
WHAT?
He tries to take a step around me, but I’m faster. After all, I’m the one with something to lose here. My job is on the line.
My laugh is forced and fake. My hand touches his bicep, and he looks down at it as if he’d like to cut it off at the wrist.
Oh my god, this is going horribly.
“Eighth grade was a really long time ago.” When it looks like he’s about to cut me off, I rush on. “But you have every right to be angry with me after everything that happened. I’m not proud of my actions back then. But look at you! You’ve clearly won. Made a real name for yourself. I was hoping to hear more about that, actually. My editor in chief at Bon Voyage thinks our readers would love an exclusive with you, getting to know the man behind the mast, so to say.”
I hope my witty wordplay will seduce him into compliance, and to my credit, he does smile.