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)
And I simply couldn’t believe he’d have done what Layla seemed to be suggesting.
“That’s a terrible accusation to throw around with no proof,” I said, allowing anger to bleed into my tone.
Reagan’s grin faded at whatever expression he saw on my face, and he frowned. I shook my head, waving him off, but he walked toward me instead.
“That’s what I said,” January agreed. “In her defense, she backed off immediately, and she’s probably half out of her mind between the flu and her meds. Alena told me she was already stressing about the Elustre launch even before this Nova thing because she wants to impress you, and she really doesn’t want to let her team down. Now she’s trying to fix this stuff from her bed while you and Reagan go off to save the day. She’s probably feeling left out and proprietary and worried.”
I understood this. Layla was the head of PennCo, and Elustre was her baby. It had to be killing her not to be on the front lines. And still…
“I sympathize, but I will not condone her or anyone else throwing around accusations. Is that understood?”
Reagan’s eyebrows lifted as he wandered close enough to overhear. “What’s happening?” he stage-whispered. “Who’s accusing someone? What’s going on?”
I ignored him.
“I’ve known Reagan Wellbridge for a long time,” I told January. “And I can tell you with confidence that he’s a silver-tongued, provoking little shit. But he’s not a liar. He’s not manipulative. And he’s not a person who’d callously put someone else’s livelihood at risk for his own gain. He didn’t do this.”
Reagan froze in shock as I walked past him toward the bus stairs.
“Good enough for me,” January said briskly. “I’ll make sure Layla knows.”
“No. Thanks anyway, January, but I’ll make sure she knows.” I ended the call, then paused with my foot on the bottom tread. I half turned and found Reagan exactly where I’d left him. “Get inside before you freeze your ass off.”
Reagan blinked out of his stupor and followed. “I don’t… What the hell was that about?”
“Get in here and I’ll tell you.” I turned to McGee once I was inside. “Did you get me khaki pants?”
“Yep. Khakis, golf shirts, sweaters. Everything on Mr. Fashionista Barbie’s list. A full-on discount dork wardrobe is hanging in your closet.” McGee thumbed over his shoulder toward my bedroom, then looked at me with a little frown. “You good, boss?”
Was I? A woman I’d trusted for over a decade was throwing around accusations. I was stuck on a bus with a man I absolutely couldn’t have and also couldn’t stop thinking about. I was already tired of glad-handing, and this was only day one.
But I knew what I needed to say. “I’m good. Just let me get out of this damned suit, and we can go.” I looked at Reagan, who was sliding off his coat, and added, “Then you and I need to talk.”
Chapter Seven
Reagan
…He’s a silver-tongued, provoking little shit. But he’s not a liar. He’s not manipulative. And he’s not a person who’d callously put someone else’s livelihood at risk for his own gain…
On the all-time list of compliments I’d received, this should have ranked somewhere near the bottom with the thinly veiled insults. But hearing those words in Thatcher’s deep, confident voice, in this particular context, gave them a totally different spin.
He’d defended me.
My chest squeezed at the warm comfort of it. Thatcher Pennington had defended me, and that meant…
Nothing. Come on, Reagan. You’re his friend’s kid. Of course he’d defend you. It’s not personal.
“Reagan? You okay?” Thatcher emerged from the bedroom quickly, wearing casual pants, another of his incredible sweaters, and a concerned expression, possibly because I was standing next to the refrigerator, staring blankly into space.
“Never better. Nothing I love more than randomly being accused of things.” I forced myself to move, to grab a drink from the refrigerator, to keep my cool, though it felt like a losing battle under the circumstances. “I was just standing here wondering what the hell someone thinks I’ve done now. I haven’t fucked up anything that I’m aware of.”
“I know.”
Thatcher slid onto the front-facing side of the booth, as usual, and I took the seat opposite him. As though McGee had sensed that Thatcher was finally sitting, the bus pulled smoothly out of the parking lot toward Wichita, and I looked at Thatcher expectantly.
But instead of talking, explaining, Thatcher took out his phone and started tapping—maybe another of those incredibly awkward, type-erase-repeat texts he’d sent Brantleigh earlier that had made my stomach cramp with all sorts of gushy, sympathetic feelings—and I found myself filling the silence.
“All I did yesterday was make media packets for the trip. I didn’t even write any of it—just formatted it and printed copies and delivered them to McGee,” I said.
“Okay.” Thatcher didn’t glance up.