Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“Cockblocked by my cardiac monitor,” I muttered when the kind lady left to get me some crackers and water. “That might be the title of my autobiography.”
Thatcher, sitting in a chair a respectable distance from my bed, was busy typing something on his phone. “Please don’t say cock. There will be no cock on the menu for a couple of months,” he decreed. I made a squawking noise, and when he glanced up at me, his eyes softened and heated. “Okay, one month. But that’s as much as I’m willing to concede.”
“What? Why?” I sounded petulant, but I was blaming the flu.
“Because I’m going to make sure you get well. Starting by having McGee bring you some soup from the restaurant down the street.” Thatcher slid his phone away, leaned forward, and picked up my hand with both of his. “You scared me,” he said baldly. “I never want to see you that sick again.”
I ran my other hand through his hair gently. “I’m sorry.”
Thatcher shot me a glare. “Don’t apologize for something you had no control over.”
“Seriously, though,” I said, “Dealing with me right after dealing with Brant and handling the Layla thing… I am sorry I worried you.”
Thatcher leaned even closer and pressed his hand over my masked mouth to shut me up. “Apologize again and find out what happens,” he growled. “If you don’t want to worry me, you’ll focus on getting better, baby, and understand why we will not be having sex for—” I parted my lips and traced my tongue along Thatcher’s palm through my mask. His eyes dilated. “Two weeks,” he said in a choked voice. “And that’s final.”
I grinned. When you were madly in love with a billionaire business tycoon, it paid to master the art of negotiation… especially when it came to sex. I was pretty sure that by the time I was actually well enough to actually consider doing the deed, I’d manage to shave off another week or more. A little bubble of joy welled up inside of me at the idea that Thatcher and I would be together long enough for that to be an option.
I removed his hand from my face and cradled it in both of mine. “You’re not a bad bet,” I said softly.
“Oh no?” His eyes studied me intently over his mask. “I’m eighteen years older than you—”
“Eighteen years more experienced,” I countered. “In all the best ways.”
Thatcher’s eyes flared. “I’m controlling. I don’t know if I can change that—”
“I like you bossy,” I blurted.
His intense stare softened. “Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah,” I breathed.
“Hold that thought for another… ten days, minimum,” Thatcher instructed. He cleared his throat. “I’m also way too committed to my job—at least, I have been. That’s something I’m going to change, but I might slip up from time to time—”
I squeezed his hand tightly. “The work Pennington Industries does is valuable, Thatcher. The technology you develop makes people’s lives better in a billion little ways. And you have hundreds—thousands—of employees and contractors and investors whose livelihoods depend on the company staying profitable. That’s important. I would never want to interfere—”
He shook his head. “It is important, but it’s not more important to me than you. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way over the last couple of days.” He reached up with his free hand to brush my hair off my forehead. “You know, I was already planning to leave Honeybridge this morning, before I heard you were sick.”
“Really?” I frowned. “But the Investment Summit—”
“I don’t give a shit about that Summit, Reagan. I’d been so damn stubborn, and by the time I realized how much I needed you—how little everything else mattered when you weren’t by my side—you were gone, and the only thing I cared about was getting you back. I was planning to beat you back to the city so I could pick you up at the airport, maybe take you back to my place, and—”
“And keep me there permanently?” I teased, amused. “So you said. It’s a solid plan. I could get on board with being held prisoner in your penthouse with the beautiful view.”
Thatcher’s face held naked vulnerability. “If I thought I could get away with it. I don’t want to pressure you, Reagan. I know there are probably a lot of things we’d need to settle before moving forward together. Whether you’d want to live with me eventually, where we’d live, what you want to do with your career—I mean, I’d really like to offer you a social media strategist position at PennCo since I think you’d be perfect for the job—”
“You do?”
“Obviously.” He frowned. “Have I not made it clear that I think you’re brilliant? And that’s true whether you and I are together or not, Reagan. You would kick ass at that job.” He shrugged. “Frankly, there are a lot of things you’d do well at, but if that’s what you want to do—”