Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
No one wants to hear that the billionaire is lonely. I have plenty of things to fill my time.
“Mac, show your mom the costume for the holiday recital,” I say, and Mac unzips her backpack and tugs out the fabric—a red sweater with snowflakes on it. The recital isn’t until next week, but the school wanted to get ahead of any potential costume issues, hence the early dress rehearsal. I can’t fault them for being prepared.
“It’s fantastic,” Felicity says breezily. “And I can’t wait to see the rehearsal. I know it’s going to be brilliant.”
It’s such a Felicity thing to say. No one wears rose-colored glasses twenty-four seven quite like my ex.
“All right, Mom. Let’s go,” Mac says, stuffing the sweater back into her bag. “But listen, I really want to know if I sound good. You have to tell me if I don’t.”
“I will,” Felicity says.
We both know she won’t. She’ll tell Mac she sounds fantastic.
I kiss Mac on the cheek goodbye and return to the sleek limo, parked among other sleek limos, and slide inside. This time, as Frank Sinatra reminds me, Santa Claus is coming to town.
Bibi speaks into the phone pressed to her ear. “You don’t say? Georgie broke up with the lawyer she was seeing?” There’s a pause as Reagan pulls back into traffic. “Well, I never liked him. He defended that oil company.” Bibi shudders dramatically. “So Georgie’s seeing a matchmaker? Do I ever have a match for her. I had a vision about this, in fact.”
Shaking my head vigorously, I pop in my earbuds and listen to a podcast about a one-hundred-million-dollar diamond heist at an airport in Morocco while, on the phone, Bibi tries to engineer a date for me.
One I don’t want. If I were to imagine a romance—down the road, of course—none of Bibi’s prospects are women I could picture myself with. I’d want someone funny and kind who wasn’t afraid to keep me on my toes.
But that’s not in the cards now.
At the stadium, Bibi and I go our separate ways—she handles our charitable contributions, and I handle, well, the whole damn business.
When I reach the C-suite, I stop short at the sight of my executive assistant. Shay is about my age—late thirties, though his pale complexion and devotion to sunscreen make him look even younger. His desk is covered with photos of his wife and cats, but those aren’t felines on his sweater. Is that a fleet of Santas riding unicorns?
“Good morning, Mr. Blaine. I’ve emailed your agenda for the day to you. No printouts, just the way you want. Is there anything else I can do for you?” he chirps, then pops up from his desk, and whoa. Not just unicorns. 3-D unicorns.
I’ve been trained not to comment on employees’ clothes—thank you, Mac—but this time, it’s a struggle to pretend I don’t notice the golden horns sticking out from his sweater.
“Thank you, Shay. And I’m all good right now. How are Tater Tot and French Fry?”
I give myself points for my poker face and for name-dropping his cats.
But Shay just smirks. “Nice try, boss. But that means this sweater isn’t just ugly. It’s super ugly, right?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your reaction.” He points at me. “The whole ‘blank face’ and focus on the kids thing.” His grin widens. “I’m field-testing options for the ugly sweater contest. My mom sent this from the homeland, so it’s one hundred percent Norwegian ugly sweater. How is it on the ugly scale?”
Eye-wateringly horrifying. “It’s nice,” I manage since it’s not my place.
But he sees through me, pumping a fist. “Ten out of ten levels of hideousness. Yes! I can’t wait to tell Lucia that Mom nailed it this year.”
Lucia’s his wife, who works in building ops.
Then, he’s poised and professional again as he says, “Don’t forget your ten a.m. with Fable Calloway from design.”
“I won’t,” I say with an even stonier expression.
How could I? I’ve only been looking forward to that meeting since I woke up. Once inside my office, which overlooks the field and the best damn football team in the world, I check the time on my watch. One hour till my meeting with my lead designer. I check my reflection in the window. This suit does look sharp. I run a hand over the midnight blue jacket.
I did pick it for a reason. This is my best suit, and I like to look nice. The fact that the meeting is with Fable has nothing to do with my selection.
Fine.
Maybe it has a little something to do with it. But it’s nothing I can’t handle. Or hide.
Just like I’ve been doing for the last year or so.
5
FONDLE WITH CARE
Fable
Where is the new sparkly T-shirt? The one that will look amazing in all the employees’ holiday stockings?
I swore I left it on my secondhand brushed metal table. The one held up by two whimsical metal frogs because frogs should only ever be whimsical. I set the shirt here last night to show the boss man. I shove aside the crimping pliers and a few half-finished earrings, then peer under the mason jar holding the wind chimes I’m making Mom for Christmas.