Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
“Sit down,” I say, motioning to the seat in front of my desk.
She nods, trots in, and sits down before she holds up a notepad and puts a pen to it. “Do you have corrections to go over?”
Good. She’s ready to work rather than waste our time trading insults.
I can respect that. Professional, businesslike, blunt.
I never would’ve guessed she had it in her, but I’m open to seeing another side of her. Too bad we have a very unprofessional subject to bat around.
I shake my head.
“Your copy is clean enough to eat. That’s not what I wanted to discuss,” I tell her, leaning back in my chair.
She lowers the notepad and pen, her eyes wider and more suspicious.
“Oh?”
“A lot went down between the two of us before your interview.” I pause, clearing my throat. “I can certainly appreciate your talent and your backbone, Miss Poe. What I can’t appreciate is ignoring the pissed off elephant in the room, that day you decided to make off with my Regis roll—”
“You mean when you were harassing me over a flipping cinnamon roll?” she spits, her eyes flashing.
Ah, there’s my hellcat, and she’s all claws today.
I glare at her like the sucker for punishment I am.
“Actually, I meant you being too selfish to part with your precious cargo even for five hundred dollars.” Her mouth opens and I hold up a hand. “Listen, it doesn’t matter. I’m not here to re-litigate two regrettable battles at Sweeter Grind. I’m offering you a truce so we can work together like two gears in the well-oiled machine that is this company.”
She narrows her eyes, obvious acid on the tip of her tongue.
“Why? If I’m producing clean copy and doing my job, why wouldn’t we get along? Professionally, I mean. You can see I do my job, regardless of any past brain-dead debacles.”
I pause, shooting her an assessing look.
“Maybe so. However, I still feel we should spell it out so it’s an easy working relationship.” I hate how she practically glows with the morning light spilling in. “I’ll also feel better if you’ll accept certain changes to benefit your work here in the interests of minimizing the potential for future conflict.”
“Changes?” she echoes, biting her lip. “And what conflict? God, you can’t mean pastries again...”
My lips twitch, trying to pull up a smile.
Because the fact that I do probably deepens her portrait of me as textbook psycho.
“For one, you can quit biking to work. We’ll share the same ride in my town car and place our coffee order bright and early every morning, well before the cafe has a chance to run out of anything.”
She stares at me, incredulous.
“Very funny... You are joking, right?”
“I’m doing you a favor. Pastry business aside, I thought you’d appreciate a ride, rather than facing the elements on your—”
“Dude. I happen to like biking to work, thank you very much. And you can’t just order me to take a different means of transportation into work. You don’t own me when I’m off the clock, Mr. Burns, and just—what is your obsession with the freaking cinnamon rolls? Do you have a pathological addiction to cinnamon or something?”
Adorable.
She’s strangely alluring when she’s red-faced and staring at me in disbelief, her breath coming faster, giving her body this extra pulse that’s a delicious hell on my eyes.
Also, it’s none of her damn business what I need the cinnamon rolls for. If they were purely for me or the office crew, I’d say so. It’s not my place to go around telling Wyatt’s tragic life story, though.
So all I can say is, “Sure.”
“Huh?” She blinks at me, clearly caught off guard.
“I’m not just an addict, but a pusher,” I tell her with a shrug and deadpan delivery. “It’s an awful habit I developed in my college days. It happens. Now when I log off as CEO of a multibillion-dollar company, I spend my nights on the streets, cutting up cinnamon rolls and dealing bagged up bites to anyone who wants a hit.”
“Okay. Now you’re definitely joking unless you’re completely—”
“Insane? Try me, Nevermore. Why the hell else would I offer five hundred bucks for a cinnamon roll?” I fold my arms, glaring until it’s almost uncomfortable.
Lame story, but my delivery makes her wonder if it’s true for at least a few seconds. More importantly, it diverts her from the real reason.
It’s not like I’m trying to keep the man who saved my life alive or anything.
“Your sarcasm sucks,” she mutters quietly, heaving out a sigh. “I hope you’ve got Anna or someone from marketing critiquing my writing. I’m not sure you’d know a good story if it whacked you across the face.”
“Ask stupid questions, get stupid answers,” I say matter-of-factly.
“It wasn’t a stupid question. It was a fair one. You’re legit crazy about cinnamon rolls. It’s just...weird.” Her voice goes up on that last word before she throws out a hand. “You know what? Fine. Keep it a big dark secret. I honestly don’t want to know.”