Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72027 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
“To chance meetings,” he says.
His words twist in my heart. Barclay sat at this very bar two nights ago. It was the first of our chance meetings. Trevor clinks my glass. I want to drink my prosecco in one full swipe, but I just take a sip.
“So, you’re looking for a job in the city,” he says, though it’s an obvious answer since he helped route my résumé.
“Yeah. Just graduated college.”
“Where?” Trevor asks.
“University of Montevalo. It’s a small college, around twenty-five hundred.” I play with the cocktail napkin in front of me, trying to avoid eye contact with him.
“Oh, it’s in Spain, right? That’s rather impressive.” He’s wrong, of course, since it’s in the small town of Montevalo, Alabama. There is Spanish moss there, but still, he’s way off.
“Not quite,” I reply.
“Wait. It’s in Portugal,” he concludes, totally convinced he knows everything. I roll my eyes and shrug. There’s no need to contradict him.
Trevor drones on about his job as Hammond Press’ chief financial officer. His position sounds important and fits his gigantic ego, though I had no idea he was so high up on the executive scale. Here I was worried about how Barclay’s help would raise questions about me. It’s likely worse with Trevor, because inexperienced girls from Alabama only get references from chief officers via a family member or blow jobs, and the latter is more this guy’s style.
I sigh knowing there’s nothing I can do. I catch myself twirling my hair and looking over my shoulder. There’s a big, delusional part of me that hopes Barclay will show up and rescue me.
About five inches from my fingers, my phone sits on the bar counter and lights up with an incoming text. It’s Barclay. I’m anxious to read it, but when I try to reach for my phone, without being too obvious, Trevor says something that diverts my attention.
“Oh, I spoke with Helen Ratner,” he says, pausing. My eyes flash to his face, and I hold my breath. His smirk feels like a drum roll as I wait for him to continue. “You should be hearing from her soon. That’s all I know. Helen doesn’t discuss the marketing side of the company with me.”
“Thank you,” I say. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Well, I couldn’t let a beautiful woman down,” he says with a tease. I flinch when he reaches out for a strand of my hair. “Besides, I can think of a few things you could do to show me your gratitude.”
He’s repulsive. There’s absolutely no way I can wait until Maggie’s call to get rid of him. This guy needs to be put in his place now. He doesn’t realize I have tons of experience dealing with creeps like him.
“Oh, what do you have in mind?” I look through my lashes, inching closer to him. His breath still reminds me of garlic.
“Maybe we could take our discussion upstairs?” He waggles his brows, and my stomach turns. Ugh.
“You want to sleep with me?” I soften my voice and lower my head. I can’t look at him anymore. He probably thinks I’m shy or embarrassed, but I’m trying to hide the obvious disgust on my face.
“I’d be the best you’ve ever had,” he brags, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.
It’s time to make an unmistakable point with my killer high heels. I take a deep breath, mentally prepping myself. The last time I pulled this stunt on a guy, he cried out for his mother. I may seem like a helpless young woman, but Trevor doesn’t know my police officer brother, Miles, taught me how to defend myself.
I rise off my stool, push it under the bar, and stand next to him. Trevor follows my motions, licking his lips.
I glance down at his black loafers, a thinner leather than his dress shoes from yesterday. This fact makes me smile. I take half a step closer to him, our bodies almost touching. His eyes darken and breath quickens.
I step in front of him, facing the bar, lift my right foot, and place my spiky heel on the top of his shoe. I press down into the leather, connecting with his flesh, and twist, giving him a fuck-off-you-bastard smile the entire time.
“What the hell are you doing?” he shouts. The other guests around us turn their heads our way.
“Let me set things straight,” I hiss in warning. “First, I don’t owe you anything. Second, you’re a jerk.” I twist and press again. His eyes beg me to release him from the pain.
I dig my heel into his foot one last time and throw what’s left of my prosecco at his distressed face. Drops of the sweet liquid run down his cheeks like tears.
As Trevor wipes the drink from his face, he focuses on something behind me. His eyes go wide in surprise—or is it fear? Before I can turn around and see what has his attention, Barclay is standing next to me.