Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
I’d felt lighter, happier, and yeah, younger. And though I don’t want to admit it, her acting like I’m not some perverted geezer was like a shot of rocket fuel to my ego.
And my dick.
After we’d reluctantly said good night, I’d nearly floated to my room with a smile stretched across my face that I could feel. That high had lasted until I laid eyes on the faint lines on my face—around my eyes, beside my mouth, and across my forehead. And the gray hair that’s starting to sprout on my chest, just one or two strands, but they’re there. Because the mirror doesn’t lie and the truth is… I am old. Way too old to be playing ‘date night’ with someone Riley’s age. And that reminder was a painful, cold dash of truth on the rest of the evening, ruining my sleep last night and my continuing mood today.
When my door opens without a knock, I look up, expecting to see Jeannie because she’s the only one with instant, constant access to me, though she typically knocks before entering. Instead, Kayla closes the door behind her and struts across my office to place a file folder right in the middle of my desk. Trapping it there with one perfectly manicured fingertip, she informs me, “Whatever the fuck is wrong with you, don’t take it out on the analysts. You’ve got them shitting in their suits, thinking someone down there fucked up.”
I blink. How my mood might affect them didn’t even occur to me. Usually, I don’t think of them at all, other than as a resource to complete things I want done. “Sorry.” It’s an automatic response, not an actual apology, but she dips her chin once in acknowledgement before sitting down in one of the chairs in front of my desk without invitation.
“It’s fine,” she says airily. “I told them you were the fuck-up, not them.”
I want to demand she go tell them otherwise, but it would do no good. She probably didn’t say that, anyway, but is using it as a conversational pry bar to get me to open up, expecting me to argue back with her instinctively. It’s a good thing I’m genetically averse to spilling my guts, having learned from the best—Dad.
Kayla examines her nails, seeming like she has all the time in the world to wait me out, so I lean back in my executive chair and clasp my hands in front of me on the desk. Two can play this game, and while Kayla’s good, I’m pretty damn good at it myself.
When I stare blankly at her, intentionally keeping my expression flat and unyielding, she sighs. “Fine. Speak or don’t, your call, but I’ve got a meeting in five.” She glances at her watch, a delicate gold Rolex Dad bought her when she graduated and officially joined the company. It’s remarkably similar to the one I have in a drawer at home that he gave me for the same reason. “Tick-tock.”
She probably doesn’t have a meeting, but after a long thirty seconds of silence, I pop open like a piñata since historically, she’s the only one I talk to, and I trust her to tell me the truth about how severely I’ve fucked up.
“I have a problem.”
“A problem, singularly? Cam, I could name three problems you have off the top of my head, and probably five more if you give me a minute to put some thought into it.” She smiles at the easy taunt while throwing it at me. She’s one of the very few people who would dare to speak to me that way, and more importantly, part of the select group I would allow to do so, and she has no qualms about taking advantage of that privilege.
“Do you want to hear it or not?” I snap. I’m at the end of my rope here, scrabbling to keep a grip on my sanity, and she’s joking around.
She sobers, then gives me the signature Ice Queen look that has reduced more than a handful of men to rubble at her feet. Thankfully, I’m used to it and don’t so much as tremble. “By all means, proceed.” The crisp retort comes with a regal wave of her hand, giving me the floor.
“I told Riley about Michelle.”
Five little words, but I may as well have set off a bomb in the room. I see the shockwave roll through her—she visibly recoils, her mouth drops open, and her eyes widen in shock—but just as quickly, she schools her face, hiding her astonishment at my throwing my wife’s name out so bluntly, out of nowhere. As a rule—my rule—we don’t talk about Michelle. Not to me, not to Grace, and not even to each other, though I’m sure they’ve broken that commandment when I’m not around.