Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 161434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 807(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 807(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
“I’d be afraid to crack a smile if I were you, and you’d retaliate with an avalanche of work. When are you going to man up and admit we need a decent assistant?” I snarl.
“I should unload on you anyway.” He glares at me.
“Boys, enough. The question is, what now?” Grandma asks, patting my shoulder.
“Now, Nick pays the price,” Ward says, adjusting his tie, the same color he obsessively matches to his eyes. “Of all the stupid shit I’ve done, I’ve never had a chick under five feet help me drag a drunk guy into his hotel room.”
“We didn’t carry him, technically. He just kind of...leaned on us. And she has to be taller than four feet whatever,” I insist, holding up my hands.
“She’s five feet even,” Grandma says with her designer confidence.
I look at her.
She takes a drink of wine.
“I recall the invoice for her uniforms.” She’s quiet for a minute. “When she got out of the car to help you get Jorge into his hotel, how was that not a clue? That should have been pretty difficult with the height difference.”
Ward snorts. “The hilarious thing is that you thought a waif of a driver was a man.”
“She was wearing a hat. And that coat looks like it’s meant for the Russian army. Also...” I trail off. What’s the point in pleading my case? Then again...I might as well come out and say it. “Frankly, that night with Jorge Franca, I’ll admit I was too drunk to notice.”
Ward’s chest heaves with a low, agitated growl.
“See? This is why you shouldn’t drink on the job. Ever.”
I shoot him the dirtiest look I can muster and remind him, “But you don’t care what I do when nine-figure deals are being signed, do you, bro?”
He opens his mouth, but closes it before he can get a parting shot in. His lips twist sourly.
I’ll take my wins where I can.
I have to make this up to Reese Halle—somehow—but for now? I’ll settle for shutting up my brother’s machine-gun mouth.
3
Class Notes (Reese)
I park the town car at the curb of the bossman’s penthouse and text that I’m waiting.
A few minutes later, he slides into the back seat holding a bouquet of roses so red they burn my retinas.
Oh, no.
He leans forward and hands it to me. “For my beautiful, gracious driver.”
Swallowing a sigh, I take the bouquet and set them in the empty passenger seat beside me. “Um, Mr. Brandt? You’re my boss. Remember? You aren’t supposed to comment on my physical appearance.”
“I said gracious, didn’t I? And I meant beautiful personality, of course,” he corrects sharply.
How hard can I roll my eyes?
“Right.” I glance over at the flowers in the passenger seat, wondering who I pissed off in a past life to make Nicholas Brandt the only man who’s ever given me flowers. “They’re still fresh. How’d you manage it before leaving your place?”
“There’s a shop in my building,” he says matter-of-factly, like everyone in Chicago lives in a place with a luxury mall on the bottom floor.
“Of course there is.” I pull away from the curb and into the steady stream of rush-hour traffic.
“Do you like them?” he asks, a rough edge in his voice that feels fake.
Like he’s trying oh-so-hard to keep up his usual late-morning grump mask when he’s really concerned for how I feel about the bouquet.
I’m almost touched.
Same for the fact that he’s...wait. Is he actually giving me time to answer his stupid questions now that he realizes “Halle” isn’t a mister?
“They’re nice,” I grind out without daring to add that he guessed my favorite color.
My eyes flick back to him as a smug, relieved look crosses his face.
“Honestly, though, it feels a little sexist,” I add.
“What?”
“Dude. I don’t mean the flowers, but here’s the thing. When I was a guy, you always answered your own questions. I never had to talk to you. Now, you’re waiting on pins and needles for a reply. You’re treating me differently than you’d treat a guy. It’s—” I’m about to say, “not hot” but I remember he’s my boss and I don’t, in any way, want to put him and hot in the same sentence. “It’s unbecoming,” I finish.
“Unbecoming? What the fuck? This is Chicago, not London, Miss Halle,” he barks. “Also, the whole reason I blabbed so much when I thought you were Batman was because I was trying to make you feel comfortable. So you’d talk to me.”
“I couldn’t talk to you. You never gave me a chance. Now all you want to do is hear my voice. See? Sexist.” I sniff loudly, fighting back a smile at the faint worry in his emerald-green eyes.
Sexist or not, he could slay a woman dead with those things.
“Chivalrous, you mean,” he says without missing a beat.
I can’t help it, I laugh.
“What’s so chivalrous about making me talk to you?”