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)
“Because you care that deeply about a low-level position in the PR department of a textile company.” I raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
He opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it and shrugged. “Why not?”
Why not, indeed. I folded my arms and leaned back, too, mirroring his position, and we watched each other with the twitchy focus of a pair of Old West gunslingers at high noon. The bus lurched slightly as McGee pulled us out onto the street.
I wanted to think up a perfectly acceptable, work-appropriate reason why Reagan should not come on this trip—surely there were hundreds—but damned if I could think of a single one while he was watching me like that. I couldn’t imagine why he’d want to be here, but it seemed he did. Denying him the opportunity—and potentially damaging his reputation in the process—simply because we’d slept together was the very definition of not-okay.
So… it appeared I was stuck. This was not a condition I often found myself in these days, and I couldn’t say I enjoyed the feeling of powerlessness. But I was a grown man capable of resisting temptation even in forced proximity—I’d managed to get through an entire Honeybridge vacation last summer without laying a hand on Trent and Patricia’s son, after all. So I could handle this.
“Fine, then.” I clenched my back teeth together. “Stay.”
Reagan’s suspicious gaze scanned my face, looking for a catch. “Really.”
“Until Layla’s feeling better, yes. Truce?”
“Truce.” His lip twitched, and his eyes lit with humor. “Were we at war?”
“Weren’t we? You compared yourself to a feral beaver. That sounded rather aggressive.”
“A rabid beaver,” he corrected. “And you’re right. If you’d seen the colony of rabid beavers that took over Lake Wellbridge when I was twelve, you’d know just how aggressive they can be. I was petrified to swim for a whole summer, convinced they’d gnaw my dick off.”
I did not want to be thinking about Reagan’s dick or about the way he’d looked when he was swimming—back muscles rippling as he dove beneath the surface, face creased with joy when he emerged a moment later shaking rainbow droplets from his hair. “You seem to have gotten over that fear.”
“I was told I was over it,” he corrected. “Which is different. The beavers might’ve been part of a Honeycutt plot to take over the lake, you see, so Mother insisted JT and I swim daily. Show your enemies no fear, whether they’re beavers or Honeycutts.”
I snorted. “I know your mother’s competitive, but was she really willing to risk your… body parts… to make sure the Honeycutts didn’t win?” I only wished this were as unbelievable as it sounded.
Reagan’s grin appeared and disappeared, fast as lightning and just as breathtaking. “You have met Patricia Wellbridge, yes?”
I stared at him, wishing I could peer into his head. The man was a contrary mix of submission and snark, adorable blushes and cutting comments. But which Reagan was the real one?
Doesn’t matter, I told myself firmly. He’s not yours to figure out.
Far too quickly, the bus stopped, double-parked in Midtown, and McGee pulled back the privacy curtain to stand by the sofa. “First stop. We’ve got maybe twenty minutes ’til we get a ticket, so get your bags quick, kid—” He looked up and down at Reagan’s perfect hair and stylish suit and revised his mental calculations. “Or quick as you can, anyway.”
“I’ll take far less than twenty minutes,” Reagan promised. But clearly, he’d caught the hint of disdain beneath my driver’s scrupulously polite tone because when he pushed to his feet, he returned McGee’s up-down look and cocked his head. “Just to say, I’m twenty-eight, and you’re, what, twenty-six? Kid?”
McGee narrowed his eyes. “How’d you guess my age? My own mom thinks I’m thirty.”
Reagan waved a hand. “Spend enough time on social media and you learn to spot the person behind the filter… or behind the hot-as-fuck tattoos and the early onset eye wrinkles, as the case may be.”
“The…” McGee lifted a hand to rub the skin above his eyebrow ring, and his frown deepened. “Hey! I’m not wrinkled.”
“No, of course you’re not.” Reagan patted McGee’s inked forearm comfortingly. “But if you’d ever like to talk about your skincare regime, let me know.” He grabbed his coat from the sofa and dug his keys out of his pocket. “Okay, be right back.”
McGee stared at the door long after it closed behind Reagan. Then, unexpectedly, he burst out laughing. “Jesus Christ. You know, I might actually like that guy? I’ve only ever seen him from a distance over the years, and I had an idea that he was like a younger version of his parents, but now I’m thinking he might be okay.”
“Because he insulted your skincare regime?” I rolled my eyes and felt my headache grow. “You have incredibly strange standards.”