Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 112701 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112701 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Based on the appalled look on her face, she opens her mouth to argue. I don’t wait to hear what else Raven has to say, as it won’t help this feeling I have when I’m such an arsehole to her.
I’m already gone.
Thirty minutes later, I’m pulling up to the nondescript building in the meatpacking district. Parking my car, I look back at the navigation.
There is no way this is the place. This hole in the wall needs security; it’s not a security center.
But Drew Lawson told me this guy was the best. Called him a world-renowned hacker who runs his own security business. Comes from a well-known family that is legit in real estate.
I must get to the bottom of who is trading in Cavendish Group secrets. Cameras, computer spying, the whole works are needed in my offices, and I can’t have anyone finding out.
I have no choice but to take Drew at his word. Hopefully this bloke is as good as he’s supposed to be. We don’t have time to spare losing clients, especially now with London becoming an issue.
Stepping out of the car, I look for the address, but I don’t see it. I do see a door, though. I’m not even a few steps away when the door opens.
Fascinating.
“You can come in.” A voice says from fuck knows where. The brick? There must be a built-in camera and intercom somewhere I can’t see.
I step inside the door and am transported into what I can only describe as a high-tech lair that would make a Bond villain jealous. I walk farther inside, and as I do, I see a man who looks to be my age sitting in front of a full wall of monitors.
“You must be Charles Cavendish,” he says as he swivels his chair to face me. “I’m Jaxson Price.”
17
Raven
“You did what?” My mother chokes around the sip of margarita she had just taken.
We’re in the middle of discussing my day, and somehow, we got around to the part about how I went to a meeting with Paxton. Then the topic turned to how I went about securing said meeting, leaving out the whole Silver ordeal. Obviously.
“I sent him a fruit basket and asked for a meeting,” I repeated with a one-shoulder shrug.
“A fruit basket?” my mother asks, looking at me as though I’ve lost my mind.
I offer a toothy grin. “He’s mentioned before that he’s partial to fruit.”
“You’ve spoken to him before?”
Teresa Bennett doesn’t miss a damn thing. Ever.
Lily chuckles, piecing together when I would’ve learned that news. We share a look, and I hope she can see that is not something I want to be brought up around my mother.
Mom and I have always been very close. We tell each other nearly everything. But I don’t want her to know about my lapse in judgment at Silver. It’s so unlike me, and I know it would taint her views of me working with Charles.
For reasons I don’t even want to dissect, I don’t want her thinking poorly of him. I’m an adult and capable of making my own decisions. As is he. But my mom’s old school when it comes to romance, and I know she’d find my actions in the club to be very scandalous.
“It all worked out,” I say, bypassing her question. “I landed some huge wins for the company.”
Thankfully, she doesn’t call me on it.
I continue to work through the details of the meeting, filling them in on every last piece, except for who we were bringing on as the talent.
They both begged, but I remained silent. I explained what we were up against without calling out Bauer and that I was under strict secrecy. When they heard the penalty would be losing my job, if not worse, they both said they understood.
I could tell they were disappointed. I am, too. I’m so excited about Holly Morgan potentially working on this campaign, but it’s not something I can share, especially before the ink’s dry.
“My baby girl, moving up in the world.” Mom smiles brightly, motherly pride beaming from her. I return the smile.
Lily engages my mom in a conversation about her area of town, and I zone out.
Thoughts of Charles are invading my peace and setting me on edge. The man has taken up too much of my energy this past week, but I can’t say I hate it.
He’s an enigma, carrying around secrets that I’m desperate to uncover.
I swipe my tongue across the rim of my glass, gathering the salt on my tongue before tipping back the lime margarita, eager to think about anything other than Charles.
It’s our weekly taco Tuesday, complete with a pitcher of regular and peach margaritas. We’ve been doing this for the past few years, and I refuse to stop the tradition now due to my job, even if I had to cancel the last few weeks.