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)
Heat suffused Ash’s face and crawled down his neck. He stared after him. “…Forsythe!”
Pausing to hold the bathroom door, Forsythe turned a dark glance over his shoulder. “For my wisdom and experience, of course.”
“I…” Ash gulped, straggling after him—then scowled, resisting the urge to fucking shove that broad back. “Of course.”
Asshole, he muttered mentally.
Fucking demon.
ASH HAD BARELY SETTLED AT his desk and pulled the laptop up on a new email with the meeting minutes—Ms. Vernon had been the only person besides Forsythe in the room not grilling him—for his review when his cellphone buzzed in his pocket.
He fished it out and winced at Andrew’s name on the text preview. He flashed a guilty glance at Forsythe, but the man was fixed on his own laptop, typing rapidly, long fingers elegant on the keys in efficient drumbeat notes. Ash swiveled his chair away a little, then swiped his unlock code and read the text.
Hey haven’t seen you for a few days
Followed by:
Wanna hook up tonight
Ash scrunched his nose. Just yesterday he might have said yes in a heartbeat. Andrew was easy, uncomplicated, handsome in a sort of overly tanned Ken doll way, their relationship completely shallow. They weren’t even friends, not really—not like Vic, whom Ash had known since boarding school. Andrew was just another bratty rich kid who always said yes, didn’t ask questions, didn’t get personal, and didn’t want Ash to stick around until morning. They were a habit for each other, when a hookup was too much work.
And for some reason, the idea of Andrew made Ash feel bizarrely ill.
Maybe because Andrew didn’t taste like embers and calm, quiet command.
With a surreptitious glance for Forsythe, Ash dropped his phone back in his pocket and settled back to work.
And ignored his phone when it buzzed again ten minutes later—and again not long after, before the ringtone chimed. He grit his teeth and reached into his pocket to mute his phone without even looking at the screen. Even if it wasn’t Andrew, he didn’t have time for Vic right now. Or for some tabloid reporter who managed to get his number. Or for demanding phone calls from business partners he had no idea what to say to. He had an entire fucking mess on his desk with a contractor build dispute and some labor union threatening a lawsuit when he didn’t know a goddamned fucking thing about New York unions and labor laws, and of course Forsythe chose now to be bizarrely silent and withdrawn instead of a know-it-all telling him everything before he even asked—
A polite knock came at the door, muted through the heavy slab of slate. Forsythe’s rapid-fire typing stopped; Ash glanced up as the door swung open. Ms. Vernon peered around almost tentatively, her warmth subdued, her dark skin subtly ashen.
“Mr. Harrington?” she ventured…and that was when Ash’s stomach sank. She never called him that. And she met his eyes, her own dark and aching, as she continued, “…Ashton. I…it’s the hospice center. They’ve been trying to reach you. I’ve got them on line two.”
For a moment Ash couldn’t breathe. His lungs were stone, and he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, everything choking inside him.
Then Forsythe’s hand curled against his wrist, clasping it against the arm of the chair—and Ash realized he was gripping at the leather in a white-knuckled grasp with both hands. But that touch seemed to free him from his frozen spell. Mouth dry, he managed to rasp, “Thank you, Ms. Vernon.”
She nodded, offering him a wan smile, and slipped out, pulling the door tactfully closed. Ash stared at the desk phone, at the red light for line two, that gentle hand on his wrist the only thing keeping him from bolting. He lifted his gaze to Forsythe’s; Forsythe nodded, silent encouragement, and somehow it felt as though through that touch he bled his strength into Ash, giving him the courage to pick up the receiver from its cradle and tap the button to take the call.
“Hello?” he croaked.
“Mr. Ashton Harrington?” an authoritative, not unkind female voice said.
“Y-yes, that’s me.”
“This is Nurse Failia Hawkins as Fairways Hospice. It…it’s about your father.” Her voice softened. “There’s no easy way to say this.”
Ash closed his eyes. His throat knotted, trying to strangle his voice, his breath. “He’s not…?”
“Not yet,” she assured him, yet the next words were anything but reassuring. “But his vitals are low. It may not be long, if you can come.”
Ash nodded—then cursed himself. Like she could fucking see him. “I…I…” He had to speak. Had to keep himself under control. Had to be the adult here, and act like he knew how to handle any of this at all. “I’m coming right now. Thank you,” he managed.
Then dropped the phone back in its cradle before he could hear her response.
That hand on his wrist tightened. He opened his eyes, staring at Forsythe.