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)
But none of those truths made me feel better. In fact, they somehow made me feel even worse.
I glanced at myself in the mirror as I buttoned my shirt. Thankfully, I didn’t look quite as young as I felt, but at that moment, I was pretty sure I understood what my parents saw when they looked at me. A whole bunch of ego and no life experience. A whole bunch of ideas and no practicality. A pretty, decorative shell.
“From now on, stop talking and start listening, asshole,” I muttered to my reflection. I made a vow there and then to stop trying to be Thatcher’s peer and remember I was on this trip as a gopher-type underling. The CEO of a multibillion-dollar corporation didn’t want or need my opinions on how to run his business, and even if he had, my opinions were clearly wrong.
I swallowed my pride and stood up straight. Reagan Wellbridge wasn’t exactly a quiet wallflower. But tonight, I’d be the best damned wallflower Wichita fiber executives had ever seen.
Chapter Eight
Thatcher
If Reagan didn’t stop whatever the fuck he was doing, I was going to scream.
We’d been together in enough business social situations over the past couple of days to have fallen into a kind of comfortable routine. He might sometimes be temperamental in private, but in public, Reagan was pure charm, engaging every person we met, from swaggering executives to the most timid assistant’s assistant, with a warm, genuine interest. He was intelligent and well researched enough to tee up conversational opportunities for me to capitalize on and to subtly remind me of why each person we spoke to was important. And he seemed to do it all effortlessly.
He’d become my secret weapon at these events.
Tonight, my weapon was missing.
All through the welcome cocktail hour, he’d been a ghost, standing slightly apart from me while wearing an insipid smile that held no warmth whatsoever. He nodded politely when spoken to and replied with as few bland words as possible. The only thing that differentiated him from the silent and efficient Newport Grille waitstaff was the luxury brand name and tailored fit of his clothing. And I was pretty sure it was because of today’s clusterfuck with Chris Acton.
The interview itself had been no worse than I’d expected. The guy had tried digging for dirt, but I hadn’t been surprised, and I’d managed to stick to the prepared responses Reagan and the rest of the team had provided. But from the moment I’d set eyes on Chris—from the moment he’d set his greedy little eyes on Reagan—I’d felt the nearly irresistible urge to commit violence. Every innuendo-laden word out of the asshole’s mouth had only fueled the fire, and when he’d taken a lingering look at Reagan’s ass as Reagan leaned over the table to hand me a water bottle, I’d come closer to laying hands on someone than I had in decades.
Worst of all, I was pretty sure the reporter had caught a glimpse of my anger before I locked it down.
It was inexcusable.
So what if Reagan and the reporter had history? Reagan was no shrinking virgin, and I wouldn’t want him to be. Moreover, I had no claim on Reagan, which meant he was free—absolutely, perfectly, entirely free—to hook up with Chris Acton or any other man with a come-hither smirk and a sexy gleam in his tiny, beady, vulture eyes.
The problem here was me. I shouldn’t be fantasizing about the tattoo hidden under Reagan’s tailored pants, shouldn’t see a flash of bright aquamarine even when I closed my eyes, shouldn’t want my hands on Reagan so badly that imagining Chris touching him made me stalk out of the interview and all the way back to the damn bus before I could trust myself to speak. I shouldn’t want Reagan at all… and I couldn’t fucking stop.
I had to assume Reagan was pissed that I hadn’t taken his very good advice and made nice with the reporter. Or maybe he was upset because he’d noticed the possessiveness—the jealousy—I had absolutely no right to feel. I wasn’t sure why any of that would make Reagan go radio silent rather than shedding his polite mask and calling me out for it, but I needed to figure it out. Because of all the versions of Reagan I’d seen so far—provoking, sexy, earnest, thoughtful, and ridiculous—this silent, cowed Reagan was the only one I couldn’t handle.
I excused myself from a conversation and turned to him. “Come with me.”
He looked surprised but nodded with a robotic politeness that made me want to growl. He followed me out of the private dining room and into a quiet nook off the main foyer.
“Tell me what the hell is going on with you,” I demanded without preamble.
Reagan opened his mouth and then shut it. He tilted his head and then frowned. “Pardon?”