Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
I sit back, stunned. She’s beautiful, intelligent, and has obviously done her homework on me. It’s not often that I’m at this much of a disadvantage. I know almost nothing about her.
“Fine. If you want me to listen to your suggestions,” I concede, giving the word extra weight to make sure she remembers that I haven’t agreed to her ridiculous rules yet, “I want to know who I’m working with too. Why should I listen to you?”
She swallows thickly. “I’m not telling you my deepest, darkest secrets if that’s what you’re after. That’s not what I’m here for.”
The very idea that she has secrets is exciting, a dangling carrot for me to chase. What tang to her sweetness, what spice is there to her beyond her intelligence and sass? She has to have some. You don’t get to this level of backbone without having at least a few scars inside. “Give me something, at least.”
“I’ve been a PR representative with Compass for six years. I started there straight out of college after completing my internship and was officially offered a spot with them one week after they turned in my grade on the internship course. I started with smaller cases but found my niche in image consultations, specifically image repair. I’ve handled cases for high-profile clients and tend to be who’s sent in for crisis management.”
“That’s very nonspecific of you. No details? Hobbies, crazy exes, family drama, sex tapes?” I throw her own question back at her. “Boat trips to Catalina?”
“My image isn’t the one in need of help,” she reminds me dryly, completely unaffected by me. “Those things are irrelevant.”
I nod but silently note that she doesn’t deny any of the things I questioned her with. Maybe she does have some kind of wild side.
“Care to know what I see when I look at you? What Jayme Rice’s image is?” I ask. I’m trying to get my footing back, but she kicks it out from under me at every turn, leaving me off-kilter. It’s thrilling and equally disconcerting. It’s been a long time since I’ve been challenged this much. Part of me wants to see if I’ve still got the sauce.
She leans back again, mirroring my position, and waves her hand in a ‘get on with it’ gesture.
“I may not be a PR specialist, but I can read people. You create façades for others, but I suspect the reason you’re good at it is that you live behind a created front yourself. There’s a mask to you, and while I don’t know what you're hiding behind this mask, I know why you wear it. You’re afraid to let people see the real you, the grumpy mess eating chips in bed at two in the morning, the happy goofball dancing around when there’s no music, the sexy woman I’m sure you keep locked under professional knee-length skirts and buttoned-up blouses. I don’t know which, or if you’re all of them. But you want to be what everyone expects you to be, and you want me to take the same advice. Problem is, I’m a hell of a lot deeper than that. And I suspect you are too.”
She flinches, giving me an instant of insight before her mask shuts down again over her expression. But her eyes hold the hurt my words caused. “Deeper? You could’ve fooled me,” she lashes out. “What you’re showing me is about as deep as a kiddie pool.”
“Then open your damn eyes,” I growl, my frustration driving me forward again. I’m on the edge of my chair, leaning into her as I challenge. “Or are you too afraid to do that? To be real?”
Jayme uncrosses her legs, scooting forward to meet my challenge on equal ground. “I’m not afraid of anything. But if you got to know the ‘real me’, as you call it, I’d scare the hell out of you. You’re in over your head, with me and with this situation. And this is the one and only time I’m going to throw you a life preserver. Take it or don’t, your call. Americana Land or your pride, what’s it going to be?”
We’re both standing now, dangerously close to each other over the small table between us. Our panting breaths mingle, and the anger between us ignites.
“You smug bitch.”
“Arrogant asshole.”
The door opens, startling us both, and I watch as Jayme realizes what she’s just said. Her cheeks flush, and her eyes and mouth widen in shock as she mentally backpedals. “Carson, I’m—”
“Everything okay in here?” Xavier asks in concern. He’s one of the marketing analysts in my department, and if he’s poking his head in without knocking, we must’ve been getting louder than I thought.
“Yeah, we’re fine,” I tell him, but he looks back and forth from Jayme to me, trying to read the situation. To Jayme, I say, “I’m sorry. That was unprofessional of me. I deserved that.”