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)
He’s changed into a sharply fitted black suit that he’s paired with a gold tie.
It gives me endless pleasure to see the tie is almost the same shade as my dress. If we were a couple, it would look like we’d planned it.
Good looking doesn’t cut it with him. A travesty, when you think about it. It’s one thing to go up against a formidable man, and another to have to endure a collection of panty-melting features that make you suck in a sharp breath every time you see them. Absolutely, cruelly unfair. He’s arrogantly old-money handsome, drowning in good genes so that even if he had a long, thick scar down his face, he’d still somehow pull it off. He could chip a tooth, grow a third ear, anything. Women would still sigh and say, God, he’s good looking.
He’s talking to the same man I saw in his company earlier—tall, Black, handsome, well dressed. They’re two peas in a pod. I recognize him now because, along with unpacking and getting ready for dinner, I combed over the Woodmont Overseas International website again. It was a failure on my part that I didn’t take the time to memorize every single member of the executive board before today. I can chalk it up to a hard few weeks, but it still makes me feel like a novice journalist.
The man beside Phillip is Tyson Ackres, Phillip’s business partner, and from what little information I could glean online, his good friend. Phillip is a supremely private person, but it doesn’t mean there’s nothing to be found about him online. I came across a few tidbits about Tyson, a few photos of Phillip alongside a pretty woman—Vivienne Chén, his longtime girlfriend. Though rumor is they recently split.
When I interview him, I’ll be sure to ask about it.
Sienna sees me looking at Phillip. Whatever expression I’m wearing must be pathetic enough that it makes her take action. Champagne flute still in hand, she nods toward Phillip’s group. “Follow me.”
“Wait. Why?”
My question goes unanswered as I trail after her. Surely, she knows what she’s doing. She seems extremely confident.
“Sienna,” I hiss quietly. “It’s not so easy to explain. This situation between me and him. It’s silly . . . but it’s complicated.”
“Well, we’re about to uncomplicate it.”
Oh, Jesus, she doesn’t get it.
We’re already across the room, beelining straight for them. Phillip hasn’t seen us yet, so it’s a surprise to him and to me when Sienna turns to me suddenly, laughing as she accidentally (on purpose) stumbles back into Tyson.
There’s a gasp of surprise, a perfectly contrite apology.
“Oh gosh, sorry. Sorry. I’m such a knob. Did I spill anyone’s drinks?”
Tyson smiles—no doubt charmed by Sienna’s British accent—and shakes his head. “All good here. Phillip?”
“She didn’t touch me,” he replies a tad too brusquely, looking at me rather than Sienna.
He holds my gaze for a painful second; then he looks away, not even bothering with a once-over. If someone asked him the color of my dress, I doubt he could even guess.
Thank god Sienna’s here to cut the tension. “Casey and I were just chatting, and I wasn’t looking where I was going. Ugh. Apologies, truly. I’m Sienna Thompson. I recognize you, Phillip. Thanks, by the way, for the invitation to come aboard! And sorry, I don’t think we’ve formally been introduced yet?”
Tyson smiles politely and extends his hand, first to Sienna and then to me. “Tyson Ackres. Pleasure to meet you, Sienna and . . . ?”
His warm brown eyes turn to me in invitation.
“Casey Hughes,” I supply. “From Bon Voyage.”
He grins. “Excellent. We’re happy to have you both on board.”
“We’re the lucky ones!” Sienna gushes. “Our suites are insane.”
Tyson chuckles. “Where did they put you two?”
Sienna looks to me for backup, but she doesn’t need it. “We’re on deck eight. I think we’ve got master suites; that’s what Ms. Patel called them. Though I could be confused. Premium suites, signature suites, silver suites, who knows—the ones with the huge balconies and loads of windows. Forget my flat in London; I’ll never want to leave this boat!”
“The suites on deck eight are something special. Are you happy with your accommodations as well, Ms. Hughes?”
Tyson’s question jars me out of my staring contest with my champagne glass.
I look up. “Yes. Very. Thank you.”
“And have you enjoyed your first day on board?”
What a loaded question.
I can’t help but glance at Phillip, though he’s looking away, his features pensive, his jaw tightly clenched.
I hate how difficult he’s making this.
“I think it could have been much better if your friend agreed to let me interview him.”
The words tumble out on their own accord, but I’m not upset about it. I have nothing to lose, remember? Better to have it out now, with witnesses.
Phillip turns slowly, leveling me with a gaze that’s meant to shrink and cow and bend. I stand tall.