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)
“Sure. But who could he trust more to lead them than his own son?” Chris seemed genuinely puzzled.
Movement near the door caught my attention, and I saw Thatcher pacing a few feet away, possibly within earshot. I really hoped he hadn’t been listening. Of course, Thatcher probably knew my father’s low opinion of me as well as anyone did, but I really didn’t need him to be reminded of it. Coming on the heels of this interview, it would only highlight how wrong Thatcher had been to trust me himself.
“Always nice to see you, Chris,” I said, forcing a smile. “But I’ve gotta go. Can’t keep the boss waiting.”
“Yeah.” Chris glanced at Thatcher before his own smile faded. “You’re sure everything’s alright, Reagan?” he asked, suddenly serious.
I waved this off. “Of course,” I said over my shoulder. “Perfectly fine. As always.”
But as I hurried out of the room, I felt the opposite of perfect. I was unsettled and frustrated—feelings that only increased when Thatcher marched beside me, utterly silent and wearing the scowl of the deeply, rightfully pissed—as we made our way through the convention center.
Guilt and shame clogged my throat and made my stomach ache. When we exited the building and headed toward the bus, I almost broke the silence with a blurted apology. Thatcher had been right about Chris, and I’d been wrong, and now he was angry. He had every right to be.
Trust me, I’d said. And look where that had gotten us.
I felt stupid and immature. Naive. I knew plenty about media and interviews, yes, but I’d been so desperate to prove myself that I’d let myself believe I knew better than Thatcher about Chris’s intentions.
In hopes of not embarrassing myself further, I kept my mouth closed. We were supposed to attend a formal dinner event with other high-level executives attending the symposium, but I expected any minute to be politely excused from accompanying him.
It didn’t happen. When we boarded the bus, Thatcher finally spoke, though he still didn’t look at me. “Be dressed and ready at seven. January arranged a car to take us to dinner.”
I stared at his back as he disappeared into the back bedroom and closed the door.
“Problem?” McGee asked, appearing out of nowhere and scaring the shit out of me. I jumped and nearly fell back down the stairs and out the door of the bus.
“No, not at all,” I lied. “Why do you ask?”
McGee looked at me, at the closed bedroom door, and then at me again. “You’re acting weird.”
“You’re acting weird,” I said, confirming once and for all I was an immature brat who couldn’t professional his way out of a paper bag. “Have you considered wearing sunglasses? They really help with the crow’s feet.”
“Nope.” McGee’s lips quirked. “You’re not distracting me this time. What’s up with the weirdness?” He lifted a pierced eyebrow, which was way hotter than it should have been.
Once again, I wondered how much of this man Thatcher had seen up close. Had touched. Had tasted.
This was my punishment from the Universe.
I closed my eyes and took a breath.
“I fucked up,” I admitted, opening my eyes and rubbing a hand over my mouth.
This time, both of McGee’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Really? How?”
“I thought I could trust a reporter,” I said, making a flicking gesture with my fingers. “I told Thatcher to trust him. Stupid, right?”
He reached over and pushed a button that made the door close with a whooshing sound, blocking the frigid air from filling the bus. “Meh. We all do stupid shit, Reagan. Trusting someone you shouldn’t… well, maybe it means you’re the kind of guy who wants to see the best in people. That’s not a bad thing.”
I narrowed my eyes at this frank, fair, kind reply, but I couldn’t even come up with a snarky retort. I glanced back at the closed bedroom door and let my shoulders droop. “I let him down.”
He let out a laugh. “Join the club. But Thatcher’s not an asshole. He’ll get over it, and you won’t make the same mistake again.”
“Maybe,” I said glumly. But I was starting to think making the same mistakes over and over was my dubious superpower.
I moved further into the bus to shrug out of my coat before searching my luggage for a nicer pair of pants and a button-down shirt for dinner.
While I dressed in the tiny hallway bathroom, I couldn’t help but think of McGee’s claim that Thatcher would get over my misstep. Logically, I knew he was right. One uncomfortable interview wasn’t going to destroy Pennington Industries, especially since Thatcher had managed to stick to the script, even when Chris hadn’t. And Thatcher couldn’t have been surprised that he was right and I was wrong either. After all, who’d take business advice from Trent Wellbridge’s fuckup son?