Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 129084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129084 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
“I don’t have my computer open. Can it wait until we can meet about it during office hours?”
She does sound tired. It’s not that late, but I’m sure staring at numbers all day is taxing. “Yes, but be warned, if you find me passed out on the desk, pour coffee into my IV. I should be right as rain after that.” I start to close down my computer for the night, knowing it will be here waiting in the morning. I don’t have to solve this mystery tonight.
She laughs, which has me pressing the phone to my ear a little more just to enjoy the sound. “You’re still at the office?”
“I’m leaving soon.”
“Yes, you should definitely do that. Get some rest, and we can look at it tomorrow.”
“That’s a good idea. I’m delirious at this point.”
“Numbers do that to you. I should know.” I chuckle. She says, “Have a good night, Noah.”
I kind of hang on as if I can keep her voice closer for a bit longer. Though she’s thawing when it comes to me hanging around the office and today felt like progress, I know I need to take things slow with her. I reply, “You, too.”
As soon as we hang up, a text pops onto the screen and leaves me smiling:
Noah?
Why does it feel like we’re whispering through typed text?
Yes?
Thank you for the water and chips today.
My thumbs zip across the screen:
Anytime.
Noah?
She has this way of making me feel invigorated and reenergized. She’s become my third wind.
Yes, Liv?
Thank you for checking on me today. It meant a lot to me.
Not knowing what to say, I pause and read her text over several times. It would be simple to blow it off like anyone would have done it, but we both know she doesn’t have allies in the office who care. I don’t know why she puts up with that shit.
I text:
Always.
Good night.
Good night.
It was a shit day.
I’m close to drinking a double before this dinner even begins. I don’t think it’s wise, and I keep hearing Loch judging me in my head. And though I know alcohol isn’t the answer, I should have taken the edge off at home.
I work my way through the busy restaurant, passing the hostess without pause, and straight toward the bar area.
Holy fuck.
Olivia Bancroft is impossible to miss.
Looking like the bombshell she is, I run my gaze from her head to her toes, over her ruby lips and sultry eyes. The woman knows how to get my attention and every other man’s in the restaurant. Per usual, she’s clueless to the others taking her in, including me.
Red silk dress.
Matching red shoes.
A short black jacket draped over her shoulders while her arms remain free from the confines. Ruby-red lips perched on the edge of a wineglass. Her eyes dip closed as she takes a sip. She’s beautiful and—I remind myself—off-limits.
That non-fraternization policy will do me in if she doesn’t first.
“Hi,” I mouth when she finds me coming toward her, too far to talk but not enough distance to keep our gazes from connecting. I see the quick once-over she gives me before lowering the wineglass to her side.
A fluttering of lashes is her tell, her gaze dipping away before it returns to me. The shape of her mouth forms a reply, and although I can’t hear her, her greeting is warm.
I could study each reaction and assign it nothing less than she finds me attractive despite always trying to portray the opposite. I’m not sure I’m in the mood to hide my feelings. This may be a work-related dinner, but we are after hours. Surely, that gives some leeway to a policy that’s probably legally unenforceable.
I note that I need to ask my attorney, aka eldest brother, when I see him next.
“You look beautiful,” I say, reaching her. Though I want to slip my arm around her waist and pull her close, I restrain myself by putting my hands in my pockets instead.
Her gaze dips again to my neck before licking her lips. “Thank you. You look nice as well.” Tilting to look around me, she rights herself again. “Where are the Torreses?”
“They’re running late and told us to start without them.”
“That’s kind of hard to do since they’re the reason we’re here.”
Brushing my fingertips across her wrist, I tell her I’ll be back. Moving back through the crowd, I check in with the host, who leads us to our table. When we’re alone, Liv takes a long drink of wine before she asks, “You got me out on a Friday night, Westcott. Now what?”
“You never go out?”
“No. Pretty much never these days.”
A server interrupts to take our drink order. I ask, “I’m looking for a small batch barrel-aged bourbon. Do you have any recommendations?”
“I do,” he replies, showing me the drinks menu and tapping the page. “I’d recommend this one. It’s the one I drink.”