Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 104471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104471 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
“Sent,” I announce too loudly. “I’ll go take care of my face now.”
His gaze lingers on my lips for a beat too long before his eyes lock with mine. “How was the hotdog, Miss Starling?”
A smile slides over my lips. “Fine.”
“I just noticed a small dot of yellow in the middle of the red streak. That gave it away,” he explains. “Mustard and ketchup?”
I nod. “With a bag of potato chips on the side.”
I have no idea why I dictated my lunch order to the man. He likely dined on the best sushi in the city for lunch or a big rare steak.
“You’ve stirred up a craving in me,” he says in a low tone.
My lips part slightly, but how the hell do I respond to that? He has to be talking about hot dogs, not me, right?
“Go grab me a hot dog after you wipe your face clean,” he snaps, answering my question about what he yearns for. “There’s a restaurant in Greenwich Village called Pickled Dish. Order the number twelve. It comes with a homemade roll, spicy mustard, and garlic aioli.”
What the what?
I have to go back out in the baking heat to get this guy a hot dog? Has he never heard of delivery? This is Manhattan. You can have a package of gum delivered for a nominal fee.
“Why don’t I have it delivered?” I shoot my shot because I need to be off my feet for more than the twenty minutes I scored before he showed up to point out that I’m a messy eater.
He looks at me like my hair is on fire. “Delivery?”
“Yes.” I nod enthusiastically. “It’s when a person orders something…could be food or anything really, and someone brings it to them.”
I swear the corners of his lips edge up toward a smile before he halts that and glares at me. “I know what delivery is, Miss Starling. Your contract clearly states that you are to handle everything I request of you, so go get me that hot dog. Now.”
“Right.” I paste on a sickeningly sweet smile. “I’m on it, Mr. Hunt.”
I don’t bother waiting for a thank you or any sign of appreciation because I don’t have an eternity to spare. I scoop my purse back up, grab my phone off my desk, and dart around him.
“Ogre,” I whisper as I head toward the employee bathroom. “I hope you choke on your hot dog.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Reid
“Why does it smell like pickled dicks in here?” Baden asks with a grin as he strolls into my office.
I swipe a paper napkin over my lips after enjoying the last bite of what is truly a New York treasure. “It’s called Pickled Dish.”
“Dicks. Dish.” He shrugs. “Close enough.”
“I had a hot dog,” I tell him what he already knows since the evidence is in the trashcan beside my desk.
Not only did Miss Starling come back to the office with a hot dog, but she took the liberty of ordering a side of their homemade crispy fries.
“I’ll grab some dinner there later,” he tells me. “Unless you want me to sit in on the meeting with the winery.”
I shake my head. “No need. I’ve got it covered.”
“Good.” He nods. “I’m due for a night at the gym.”
“After you eat a hot dog?”
“Two hot dogs.” He wiggles two fingers in the air. “I view it as fuel before my muscles are set on fire.”
I’ve watched the man work out. He doesn’t fuck around.
“I view it as a gut ache.” I fist the napkin into a ball and toss it into the trashcan. It lands squarely on the discarded hot dog wrapper and signature green and white Pickled Dish take-out bag.
“About Randall…” His voice trails as he tugs on the knot of his tie to loosen it. “We’re the right firm to handle the spa sale.”
I agree, so I nod.
“Use your position as the best man to get it done.”
It’s not an order by any means. It’s a simple suggestion that has taken up space in my mind all day.
“If he’s considering selling the spa chain, we’ll buy it, spruce it up, and sell it to a competitor,” he adds.
That’s how most of our smaller business sales play out. We offer the owners a reasonable price, they counter, and we end up landing exactly where we wanted to all along.
Then, we send our advisory crew in to painstakingly pick apart every aspect of the operations. The three of us meet with those advisors and develop a plan to up the ante so we can sell for a massive profit.
That approach has always worked well for us. I suspect it always will.
“I’ll handle it, Baden.”
I don’t add more because there’s no need. My word is my bond with my friends. If I tell them I’ll get something done, they don’t need to question it.