Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 69138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Frowning, Nate tried to remember the last time Ferrara had gotten laid. Zoe-something had managed to wheedle a “date” out of him last Monday. They had been ridiculously busy since Caldwell had told Ferrara about his plans, with Ferrara wanting to wrap up most of the projects at Rutledge Enterprises before they left. Because of Ferrara’s busy schedule, Nate didn’t allow any of the women who had called his boss to talk to him. So it had been nine days, unless Ferrara had a woman Nate didn’t know about. It was possible, but Nate didn’t think it was likely: the dickhead seemed to have an allergy to giving women his personal phone number.
So, nine days. By Ferrara’s standards, it was practically an eternity. Normally he got laid every few days at the least.
Relieved that he’d found a probable reason for his boss’s tension, Nate relaxed a little. It was a non-issue. Easy to handle.
When the meeting finally ended, Nate silently followed Ferrara out of the conference room, trying to think of how to bring it up. After all, it was a little awkward to ask his employer if he had a case of blue balls.
As soon as the door of Ferrara’s office clicked shut behind them, the other man said, “You weren’t paying attention during the meeting.”
Nate’s heart skipped a beat. He wondered frantically if the meeting was supposed to be about something important. “Was I supposed to?” he said. “All of those meetings are basically the same: you make scathing comments, people shake in their boots, rinse and repeat.”
Ferrara cast him an irritated look, shrugging out of his suit jacket. “I should fire you for your insolence.”
Nate studied him, but it was hard to tell how serious Ferrara was being. “I’m just making an observation,” he said. “Sir.”
His hands loosening his tie, Ferrara shot him a look. “You’ve been working for me for months now. Do I still need to remind you to watch your tone?”
“Apparently,” Nate grumbled, opening the closet and looking at the row of pristine, perfectly ironed shirts. White shirt, he decided after a moment.
By the time he turned around, Ferrara had already unbuttoned his pale blue shirt. Shrugging out of it, he dropped it onto the floor.
Nate scowled at it. “I know you’re filthy rich, but maybe handle your things with care? Sir,” he added hastily at Ferrara’s hard look.
He still didn’t understand why Ferrara needed to change his shirts at work. Brenda had mentioned that their boss was very sensitive to smells and didn’t like even a hint of sweat on his clothes—which was why Nate also kept a change of clothes at work—but it still seemed ridiculous to him.
Nate picked up the discarded shirt and sniffed it. It smelled perfectly nice: of skin and Ferrara’s subtle cologne or aftershave—Nate still wasn’t sure what it was, but it smelled really good. Way to be picky.
“It smells fine,” he said.
Ferrara ignored him.
A ringtone broke the silence.
Nate twitched before realizing it was Ferrara’s personal phone.
The other man answered it and said something in Italian.
Nate handed him the fresh shirt, trying not to eye his boss’s muscular torso enviously. Man, it just wasn’t fair. He wished he had a body that good. Not that Nate didn’t have some decent muscles, but Ferrara’s muscle definition was just… yeah. Nate glanced enviously at those broad shoulders, thick biceps, well-defined chest and perfect six-pack. Maybe he should hit the gym more often. And go to the beach from time to time, though he could only dream of a warm skin tone like that.
Ferrara shrugged into the offered shirt, but he seemed distracted by the conversation, speaking fast in Italian.
After a moment’s hesitation, Nate stepped closer and started buttoning up the shirt, knowing how much Ferrara hated inefficiency. The man stood still, allowing him to do it, a deep furrow appearing between his brows as he continued his conversation in Italian.
Christ, his privileged upbringing was so obvious at times like this. Ferrara accepted help dressing him without even noticing it, as if it was normal. Now Nate understood what Olivia had meant when she said that Ferrara had a different mentality and was raised differently. Power, superiority, and privilege oozed from his every pore. It felt like this man had been born to be served, and everyone around him seemed to sense it, submitting to his iron will as if it was only right. It was utterly disgusting and Nate hated himself a little, but he was no different from others in that regard. These days, Ferrara often didn’t even need to give him orders verbally—Nate was doing things for him before being ordered to. It was bizarre and more than a little creepy, to be honest. He creeped himself out sometimes.
When he was done with the shirt, he paused, watching Ferrara’s fingers tuck the shirt into his trousers and tighten his belt. Stepping closer again, Nate fixed his boss’s tie and then stroked it, marveling at its pleasant texture. He used to think that overpaying for brand-name products was stupid, but sometimes expensive stuff was actually really nice.