Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 94106 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94106 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 471(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 314(@300wpm)
“Since when? Last time I stopped by your office, you were banging that redhead from accounting with the sexy-as-shit shoes. And if I’m not mistaken, her cousin, too—at the same time, you lucky fuck.”
“That was a long time ago. I’ve matured since then.”
Logan tipped his chair back and smirked. “I forgot. That’s right. The receptionist—Ms. Mature. What was her name again? Misty? Marsha? Magdalene?”
“Maggie. And don’t remind me. That cost me a small fortune.”
“I would have paid a small fortune for what that woman gave you.”
“Except you don’t have a small fortune, asswipe.”
A few years ago I was going through a rough patch and not thinking with the right head. My receptionist videoed herself while giving me a blow job under my desk. I had no idea the whole thing was a setup. She’d positioned cameras from two different angles and told me to act like a pissed-off boss giving his secretary a job to do. I’d never been into role play before, but it turned out to be pretty damn hot.
Until she showed me a copy of the video and threatened to sue me for sexual harassment in the workplace. My attorney made me settle before it went to court. That was a business lesson in growing up they hadn’t taught me in college.
“So what’s our plan for next week?” Logan asked.
“My place at six. The C train is a block north on Eighty-first.”
Every year my college buddies got together for a weekend pub-crawl. We started early and hit a different bar within walking distance of each stop on a train line. One hour per bar. Ten stops on the train, ten different bars. Most years, guys started dropping by the fifth stop. But Logan and I always made it to the end. I paced myself, alternating waters between my drinks. Logan, well, he didn’t do the conservative approach. But the fucker could put away more drinks than anyone I’d ever met.
“What do you say we go warm up? Hit O’Malley’s?”
I looked at the time on my phone. “It’s ten thirty in the morning.”
Logan shrugged. “So?”
“I have actual work to do. In fact, you need to get the hell out of here. I have a meeting in ten minutes.”
“I still can’t believe you get to call sitting in this place and having that Persian kitten fetch you coffee, work.”
“A person from Paris is Parisian, not Persian, dumbass. And not everything is as simple as it looks.”
He shrugged and stood. “Whatever. Drinks tonight?”
“Can’t. Picking up Bella.”
“Annabella. How is your little sister?”
“Not so little anymore. Spent a semester abroad in Madrid. She’s flying home tonight. I told her I’d pick her up at the airport.”
“She’s in college already?”
“Going to start her second year. Nineteen.”
“Damn. She was always a cute little thing. Bet she’s a hot number now that she’s legal.”
“Don’t even think about it, asshole.”
Logan chuckled and held out his hand for a shake. We clasped. “Next week, then, pretty boy?”
The intercom buzzed, and Esmée’s voice came through. “Ford, you have Mrs. Peabody on the line.”
Logan’s forehead wrinkled. “Peabody? You still talk to that nutjob?”
“She’s not a nutjob… She’s just eccentric.”
“Eccentric is just the polite way of saying nutjob.” Logan shook his head. “I worry about you sometimes. I think you might be as nuts as her.”
“Get out, jackass. And don’t harass my receptionist on the way out.”
***
It made no sense to leave the office and go all the way uptown to my place, only to head back downtown to shoot over to the airport at ten. I had enough shit to do here to keep me busy for days anyway. By the time seven o’clock rolled around, the floor was pretty empty—just me and the night cleaning crew. I’d ordered in some Thai food and decided to go sit in the seating area in front of the windows, rather than behind my desk with my back facing the city.
I sank into the leather couch, slipped off my shoes, and propped my feet up on the glass table in front of me. Still a few hours to kill, so I started to sort through my email while eating with chopsticks out of a cardboard container. My inbox was a damn disaster. At any given moment, there were always three-hundred unread and follow-up items to manage. I sorted them oldest first and opened one I’d been avoiding for nearly a week. The director of marketing wanted me to consider a half-million-dollar investment in an advertising campaign with Match.com.
I normally didn’t question his judgment—he’d been with my dad for twenty-five years. But I wasn’t so sure a dating website was the right place to market high-end Manhattan shared workspace. And that was a damn big chunk of change. Part of the problem was, I had no experience with how the online dating scene worked or the buying habits of its users.