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)
“Coffee,” Forsythe said, suddenly inserting himself into Ashton’s line of sight with an insulated silver mug, that stern, unforgiving face filling his vision. Forsythe sank to one knee next to the bed, one white-gloved hand draped against his thigh, the other brandishing the mug like a demand. Cutting green eyes drilled into Ashton. “I presume you will be too hungover to function without it.”
“Fuck. You.” Jesus fucking Christ, Ash was going to kill Vic. He pushed himself up on one aching arm just enough to snatch the coffee mug, the covers falling down to his waist. He took a testing sip, then grimaced at the overly sweetened, overly creamed, thick mess and thrust it back at Forsythe. “I like mine black.”
Forsythe tilted his head, taking the mug. “My apologies for presuming. Most children prefer sweets to bitters.”
Ash grit his teeth. “You trying to set a record for getting fired? Jesus fuck, what are you doing? What are they doing with my stuff?”
“Moving your things to the master suite,” Forsythe required, as if it was perfectly natural, and Ash scowled, grasping up a knotted handful of blankets and pulling them up to his chest.
“Goddammit, Forsythe, I’m naked!”
That cool glance slid over him, tracing over his bare chest as if trailing ice cubes in shivering pathways over his skin, dipping down to the barrier of the blanket against his hips before meeting his gaze once more. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Get out,” Ash bit off.
“Get dressed,” Forsythe countered smoothly.
“Not with you standing over me!”
Forsythe sighed with weary patience and pushed his glasses up his narrow nose with one long, white-gloved finger. “Young Master,” he said, as if it should be perfectly obvious, “I am here to help you get dressed.”
Ash froze. “…what?” Heat flushed through his cheeks. He stared at Forsythe. Was he for fucking serious? Was he supposed to stand here naked and let this man dress him? Touch him like he wasn’t stark ass-out? “That’s…not in your job description.”
“You did not give me a job description.” Forsythe’s lips pursed. He flicked an invisible speck off his sleeve. “I know my duties quite well. And if you do not, apparently your servants have been lax in your care.”
“I don’t fucking like relying on servants.”
“That would belie the reason you hired me.”
A frustrated growl welled in the back of Ash’s throat. “I hired you to help me organize the business side of things. I’m not so helpless I can’t dress myself.”
“You cannot even wear clothing appropriately sized for you.”
“Oh, you can fuck right off.”
“That,” Forsythe retorted, rising to his feet and setting the coffee mug aside on the nightstand with an almost ludicrously precise touch, “would be one thing that is not in my job description.”
Ash glared at him, wrinkling his nose.
Then rolled over and plunked face-down back into the pillows, hugging them to his chest.
To hell with this.
His head was killing him.
He’d be responsible tomorrow.
Forsythe sighed. Ash’s only warning was the faint hint of pressure as fingers curled in the duvet—before it suddenly whipped away along with the top sheet, cool morning air whoosing over his bare skin and practically slapping against his naked ass.
“Get up,” Forsythe said, an edge of steel entering his voice.
Ash yelped, scrambling to grab the fitted sheet, ripping it off one side of the mattress and dragging it over his hips before twisting upright into a sitting position, glaring at Forsythe. He thought he caught a snicker from one of the gardening crew passing through with another batch of boxes, and fire bloomed under his skin, simmering until his temples throbbed, ears burning.
“You fucking ass,” he bit off. “What the fuck are you trying to pull?”
“We have a day of work ahead of us.” Forsythe dropped the bundle of duvet pointedly to the floor. His gaze flicked for a moment to Ash’s throat, and Ash realized with a mortified shiver that Forsythe was eyeing the fading bite-mark on his neck. “I would like to assess first the state of Harrington Steel, then the state of the house, and appraise what business matters have been halted since your father is…indisposed. For that, you need to get up.” And for all the harsh, unyielding demand in that flinty stare…for a moment, that rolling, cultured baritone gentled just a touch. “You will have to take his place, young Master Harrington. There are empty spaces at Harrington Steel, and we must ascertain how you are to fit into them.”
That reminder hit with a more sickening slug than the post-champagne lurch in Ash’s stomach, draining his anger into a gray, hollow slurry that rolled in his gut. The retort on his tongue died, and he lowered his eyes, staring down at his fingers clutched in the fine linen of the sheets, gripping them up until the fibers strained.
“…yeah.”
He waited for another cutting remark from Forsythe. Another accusation. Another reminder of how inadequate he was. He’d managed to prove that in just a few days, with Harington Steel’s stocks down by more than half and investor faith dropping on speculation about how he’d run the business into the ground when his father inevitably died. He didn’t have to be on top of the business world to hear the rumors, to get the frantic shareholder emails he didn’t reply to because he didn’t know what to say.