Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
“Is anything better than bed rotting?” I ask.
She laughs. “I’ve converted you. You never knew it, but it was my plan all along. I’m on a mission to make all the rich, successful men in New York turn to bed rotters one by one.”
“Well, you exceeded your goal. I’m not sure I’ll be able to do anything at all with my weekends after this time with you.”
She smiles like I just told her I’d managed to have the owner of the Boston hotel sell to her. “And my work here is done.”
“You want to get DoorDash? Order popcorn and stuff?” I pull out my phone. When she doesn’t answer, I look up.
“It’s eight in the morning. What have I done to you?”
I grin. “I told you. You’ve ruined me.” As I’m holding my phone, it starts to ring. It’s my assistant. Patti. My stomach sinks. She wouldn’t call me if it wasn’t urgent. I’m tempted to just ignore it, but there’s no way I’d do that. I make myself available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. That’s what I do.
“Is that your mom?” Avril asks, her eyebrows raised in question. “Who else would call this early?”
“The office,” I reply.
“If you say so. I’m going to take a shower while you and your office chat.”
She goes into the bathroom and I press accept on the call.
“I have a plane booked for noon,” Patti says. “And I’ve booked a helicopter to get you to the airfield so you don’t have to leave until eleven fifteen.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask her.
“For the dinner. With Abigail Hart.”
“What dinner?”
“She sent you an email overnight. Did you not get it?”
I push my hand through my hair. “I haven’t checked yet. I just woke up.”
She doesn’t say it, but I know what she’s thinking. I’m usually up by now. Because, I am usually I’m up by now. Going through my emails and organizing my week. But this morning’s different because I woke up in Avril’s bed, with Avril next to me.
I pull up my email and open the message from Abigail. I’ve had a hard time getting in to see her for weeks now.
“Wait, why am I flying? Abigail lives in New York.”
“She’s in Colorado.”
“At the Club?”
“Yes.”
Fuck, just my luck. “And why has she given me zero notice?”
Patti pauses and I scan the email. She’s not demanding to see me, just wonders if I’m around because she has a free evening and knows I’ve been trying to get in to see her.
I have two clients who currently have business interests that might cross with Hart Enterprises. Abigail Hart is a big deal. She has a tight circle and doesn’t socialize much. I’m one of the few people who she has any direct contact with. If she says she has dinner open, then I have to move heaven and earth to be there. Patti knows that, which is why she has me on a private jet to Colorado.
“What time will I get in?”
“Five,” she says. “It doesn’t leave you much turnaround time, but it was the best I could do.”
“Thank you. Am I booked into the Club?”
“Yes. I didn’t get a chance to tell you, but your membership for the Colorado Club got approved this week.”
That’s a coincidence. Or maybe it isn’t. I hadn’t expected to be eating dinner with the best friends of the owner of the Colorado Club. I wonder if Byron had heard that I was breaking bread with his buddies. Maybe I’ve gained more from Avril being my roommate than she will from me helping her with the Boston hotel.
It could have also been Abigail. Or maybe I’m overthinking and it’s coincidental.
“That’s great,” I say, although my heart’s just not in it. Today was my last day with Avril. We had until six to rot in bed, hang out, poke fun at each other and relax. Now we’ve got a couple of hours.
“I’ll email you what you need for the flight over.”
We hang up and I lie back, flat on the bed and stare at the ceiling. The Abigail meeting is a good thing, I try to convince myself. I’ve been trying to get to speak to her for months. I know how busy she is, so a Sunday evening dinner is as good as it gets. I just wish it didn’t have to be this Sunday.
If I called my housekeeper, she’d come over and pack for me. But I’m only going overnight and I’d rather have a couple of uninterrupted hours with Avril before I go.
As I’m thinking about everything I have to do before I leave, Avril comes out of the bathroom with wet hair, wearing a fresh pajama short set. She looks perfect.
“You showered for bed rotting,” I say.
“I take my preparation seriously.” She flips up the duvet next to me and slides into bed, grabbing the remote. “Did you get us coffee?”