Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Considering he still had a bite-mark bruised against his throat from the man he’d kicked out of bed this afternoon without even asking his name, so Ash could throw on something decent and make it to this interview on time.
“Sorry about that,” he mumbled, then swore at himself mentally. He was the one in charge here, wasn’t he? But God, this man had to be almost twice his age, and he was looking at Ash like he was dirt. Fuck. Ashton cleared his throat, straightening in his chair. “Er. I mean. I simply had to check one of your references.”
“I understand you and young Master Victor have been acquainted since boarding school,” Brand replied neutrally.
“Uh. Yeah. How did you know I was talking to hi—nevermind.” Ash swallowed, lifting his chin. Calm. Composure. Right. “So how long have you worked as a personal assistant, then?”
“Valet,” Forsythe replied stiffly.
“Pardon?”
“The position is referred to as a valet, where I am from.” Forsythe arched one pointed brow, sweeping Ash over with an assessing look. “It is a position of some station. More than merely a ‘personal assistant.’”
“Here, it’s someone who parks cars,” Ashton retorted, then reined himself in. Him and his fucking tongue. He took another deep breath, then continued, “All right. How long have you worked as a valet?”
“Approximately twenty-two years.”
Ashton stared. “How old are you?”
“Forty-one.”
“So you started when you were nineteen?”
“Dedication begins early,” Forsythe answered smoothly, with another up-and-down look. “In most cases.”
Ashton’s ears burned. He knew how he looked—this twenty-three-year-old piece of shit in an expensive suit that didn’t fit right because he’d never bothered to get it tailored, wet around the nose and ears, sitting in this oversized chair meant for men with more stature than him. He didn’t belong in this chair, and he damned well knew it. He hadn’t asked for this. He hadn’t asked for the fifty phone calls a day until he shut the ringer off on his phone. He hadn’t asked for the screaming newspaper headlines, the stack of newsprint on his desk right now charting the chaos and speculation while everyone from Forbes to The Daily Smut Shinedown guessed how long it would take him to crash, burn, and ruin everything his father had worked to build.
But he was stuck with it, and he was going to try to stop fucking up and do this right before he ran his father’s business into the ground.
Which meant he couldn’t let Forsythe get to him, when he hadn’t even hired the man yet. Ashton cleared his throat, folding his hands in his lap and trying to keep his voice stern. Authoritative. He didn’t have the same presence his father had, reverberating and commanding a room, but everyone had to start somewhere.
Maybe he’d grow into it.
“How much did Vic tell you about my situation, Mr. Forsythe?” he asked.
Forsythe’s eyes narrowed, considering. Then he recited, “Your father, magnate of Harrington Steel, Incorporated, has recently taken ill with bone cancer and is currently in hospice.” He recited the words so coldly, as if each one didn’t carry the weight of ten tons of steel rebar dropped on Ashton’s heart. “With your father currently in a comatose state and incapable of making decisions, the provisions in his living will naming you as heir and Chief Executive Officer took legal effect. You, however, have been too busy with your post-university gap year, carousing about with scantily clad young men, to consider anything business-minded, and are woefully unprepared to take the reins or even to function as an adult.” A touch of cold contempt on those words, and Forsythe straightened his shoulders, looking down his gracefully aquiline nose at Ashton. “Therefore, you require an assistant to help you…what were young Master Victor’s words? Ah, yes. ‘Get your shit together before you fuck it all up.’”
The hot burn of mortification scouring through Ash was nothing compared to the sick, heavy, nauseating feeling in his gut. The phantom echoes in his memory of that fucking respirator, wheeze in, wheeze out—and that awful sick death smell of the hospice center. It didn’t matter that it was the best, most expensive hospice center in New York state.
It was still a fucking hospice center.
It was still a mausoleum where you shuffled the dead off to wait until they finally stopped breathing.
Rather than look at Forsythe, he fingered the stack of face-down tabloid papers on his desk, fidgeting them, flipping the edge of one up—but the sight of his own alcohol-flushed face wasn’t any better. Blank-eyed, reeling, he’d been caught draped on Andrew, a casual not-quite-friend who was easy-come, easy-go, no strings attached, no questions, everything he wanted clear in his open shirt and the way his hands grasped so possessively onto Ash’s body in the photograph.
Ash stared at his own empty, vapid face, then slammed the paper down and pressed his lips together. He fought against the lump in his throat to speak, forcing himself to find words, strangled and small. “Yeah,” he said, averting his stinging eyes. “Something like that.”