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)
I set my hands on his shoulders and shook lightly. “Couldn’t,” I insisted. “I’m responsible for my choices. Fuck anyone who’s made you feel differently. That’s a sign of their own weakness.”
Reagan blinked. The dim lights of the restaurant corridor glinted warmly on his lashes. “So… you weren’t angry?”
“Not at you,” I assured him. “And even if I was, I still wouldn’t ever want you to be anyone but yourself.”
He swallowed. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed, drawing my eyes down to a throat I longed to map with my tongue. “So, you’re telling me that a ‘silver-tongued, provoking little shit’ is what Fortune 500 companies should look for in a public relations person?”
I felt myself smiling almost despite myself. It was a rare occurrence these days for someone to call me on my bullshit, and I couldn’t deny that was part of what drew me to Reagan.
One small part.
“If it’s not, perhaps it should be. I’ll ask HR to update the job description,” I teased, and he grinned. I shook him again, gently, because he was right there under my hands, finally. Because I could. “From now on, talk to me instead of doing the silent wallflower routine. It doesn’t suit you. Tell me you understand.”
His smile faded. “Yes, sir,” he breathed.
Tension jangled between us like wires stretched too tightly and on the verge of snapping. I wanted him saying those words to me naked and begging in the center of a large bed.
My head swam with memories. It had only been one night, but his submission had been enough to imprint on my brain for a lifetime. I caught myself swaying closer to him. The soft light in the corridor left sharp shadows across the planes of his face. His warm, unsteady breath fanned against my cheek. If I closed my eyes, I could almost feel the smooth skin under his eyes against the tip of my nose.
The clatter of plates startled me out of my inappropriate trance. I blinked at Reagan and took a decisive step back.
We were here for work.
Reagan Wellbridge worked for me.
I would not put him in the untenable position of thinking his boss was coming on to him.
I cleared my throat and nodded. “Let’s get back in there and charm some people, damn it.”
On my way back into the private dining room, I heard him release a sigh of relief behind me. The sound made my own shoulders unknot.
We hadn’t been back in the dining room for five minutes when Reagan began telling a funny story to a local textile executive about how the PennCo Fiber public relations team had welcomed him to the team by making him write a fictional press release in the style of a stand-up comedian. I knew Layla’s management style and Reagan’s exaggerated storytelling habits enough to know the story was most likely ninety-five percent bullshit, but it had the executive, along with several other people nearby, laughing their asses off.
Reagan then used the story to slip in several key points about Elustre’s natural fiber content and PennCo Fiber’s commitment to sustainability, but he did it in a way that didn’t seem obvious or sales-y.
And just like that, we were back in our rhythm.
But that night, when I was finally alone in bed and the bus was rambling west again, I stared at the ceiling with one hand propped behind my head and remembered what I’d overheard Chris Acton saying that afternoon as I’d paced outside the interview room. I’d figured you’d end up working for your father’s campaign, he’d said. You seemed eager to get involved last summer, and you’re killing it on Instagram. I turned over and grabbed my phone from the side table to check Reagan’s social media profiles the way I’d meant to days ago.
I quickly logged in to my own barely used account and found his name on a quick search, then blinked, sure I was reading wrong.
One point four million subscribers? Seriously? How the hell had he gotten so many? Those were celebrity numbers.
As I scrolled through his feed, the answer became clear. The man was snarky and fun, relatable and kind—the very same attributes that made him so damn appealing when he was networking at these industry events—and, yes, I was sure his breath-stealing gorgeousness didn’t hurt either. Who wouldn’t want to find his perfect face and fit body in their feed every day?
I swiped back past photos of last night’s sunset at a truck stop outside Topeka, an earlier one of him in the kitchenette booth on the bus, and him in that damn feather mask and glorious tuxedo at the gala on New Year’s Eve. Never had a tuxedo cradled a man’s body with so much precision and flattering emphasis.
Scrolling further, I found with some surprise that the man had sponsors for some of his posts. Three different clothing brands had sent him things to wear in December alone, and if I hadn’t already known that he wasn’t responsible for the Nova situation, seeing these pictures would have confirmed it. Everything about his posts was professional, classy… and incredibly arousing.