Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 83171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“Not a problem.” Marilyn wipes up the mess with a flourish.
Skye burned her tongue on the hot coffee, but I won’t embarrass her by mentioning it. This goes beyond a burned tongue, though. Something is bothering her. I place my iPad on the counter. “Could you excuse us for a few minutes, Marilyn?”
“Sure, Mr. Black. Just buzz if you need me.” She exits the kitchen.
I turn to Skye. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re acting strange. Are you uncomfortable here?”
“No. Not exactly.”
“You’re the one who wanted to stay,” I remind her. “To leave on your own terms.”
She nods. “Yes.”
“Okay. Just so we’re both on the same page—you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. I have a few hours of work to do.”
“Oh. Okay. I should check in with work, too.” She takes another sip of coffee. “Braden?”
“Yeah.”
Her cheeks are that delectable shade of pink again. “I’m going to need something to wear home.”
I resist a smile, though the memory of shredding Skye’s little black dress is worth a face-splitting grin. “Of course. Find out where Tessa got the black dress, and I’ll have it replaced. You can wear the cardigan I gave you last night.”
“Okay… What about pants?”
I nearly smile again. “I guess I didn’t leave your dress in working condition as a skirt.”
“No, you didn’t.”
I stand. “I’ll find you something. Next time, bring a change of clothes.”
She widens her eyes slightly. Is she surprised? I’m nowhere near done with Skye Manning.
“In fact,” I continue, “bring over several things. Or if you want to leave me your sizes, I’ll have some stuff delivered.”
“That’s okay. I have plenty. I can bring some over.”
“Good,” I say, my voice going darker, “because I plan to destroy a lot of them.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Work and a ten-mile run fill the remainder of my Sunday—except for the call I make to my tailor after Christopher leaves to take Skye home. Rather than wait to find out where Tessa bought the dress—since I may or may not be able to find the same one, especially if it’s not from the current season, which I’m betting it isn’t—I take the matter into my own hands.
“Miguel, it’s Braden Black.”
“Good morning, Mr. Black. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve got a project for you, if you’re free today.”
“I’m always free for you.”
“Great.”
Miguel Moore and I have an arrangement. I pay him ten times what he gets from anyone else, and in return, he drops everything and sews his ass off for me with a twenty-four hour or less turnaround. It started back when I’d made my first hundred million, and Sasha, who was just a pup at the time, chewed up my tuxedo. I had an event the next day, and a rental wasn’t going to cut it. I put out a plea on social media and Miguel answered. His work is top-notch, and over the years, we’ve kept up the arrangement.
I plan to take advantage of it today.
“I need a dress.”
Miguel laughs. “I’m guessing your usual measurements? Or is it for a young lady?”
I chuckle lightly. “For a young lady, thanks. I need you to work your magic. I have the tag from the back of the dress and some photos of a woman wearing it at a gala last night. Other than that, it’s in tatters.”
“Must have been a fun night.”
Right. And none of his business. I clear my throat. “I’ll have what’s left of the dress couriered to you right away. I’ll need two exact replicas of the dress created. Just a minute, and I’ll text you the photos.”
A moment later, Miguel says, “Got them. It looks like a basic mini sheath with spaghetti straps. I can replicate it no problem.”
“Excellent. Send one dress to Ms. Tessa Logan. I’ll find her work address and text it to you. I’ll pick up the other. Then bill me, of course.”
“You got it, Mr. Black,” Miguel says. “I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t. Sorry to make you work on a Sunday, Miguel. Thanks.”
After ending the call, I take a quick side trip to the MADD website. Front and center is a photo of Skye and me dressed to the nines. The caption reads, “Braden Black and friend.”
I roll my eyes. The usual. Most women would find that caption humiliating. I hope Skye isn’t one of them. She’s much more down-to-earth than the women who usually inhabit my orbit.
Except it’s not Skye’s reaction that concerns me.
It’s my own.
It’s the realization that I don’t want to just be Skye’s “friend.”
I want more.
…
The next morning, because of an early meeting with a potential investor, I don’t get into my office until ten thirty.
“Good morning, Claire,” I say absently as I head straight through the door. “Any messages?”
Claire rises and enters my office to lay down a handful of message slips. “Mostly mundane stuff,” she says, “except for these three.” She shoves them toward me.