Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23393 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 117(@200wpm)___ 94(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23393 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 117(@200wpm)___ 94(@250wpm)___ 78(@300wpm)
“Yes,” I snap. “I don’t want to hear your voice again until we’re back in the fucking limo. Got it?”
He rolls his eyes. I stare him down until his shoulders drop and he nods.
“Good.”
My heart is hammering behind my tailored suit jacket as we continue walking.
That’s the problem with working with family—They don’t know when to fucking shut up. My grandparents started this company eighty years ago when they started messing around in their garage on Hammerhead Lane, making perfumes. They spent their lives growing it and then handed it over to my father when they were ready to retire.
My father was a beast. He was a business genius and catapulted The Hammerhead Group into the nine-figure-a-year-in-revenue club.
But the stress of running such a large company and the constant grind mixed with all of his bad habits—smoking, eating, drinking, not exercising—and he had a fatal heart attack that shocked our family. It shocked our business too, because he passed before he named a successor.
All four of my siblings—three brothers and one sister—and my five cousins, all thought that they should be the one to take over the huge conglomerate.
I was the youngest at twenty-three, so I didn’t have any delusions that I’d be the one put in charge.
It came down to a vote. Everyone had to write down the name of who they thought should run the billion-dollar company. You couldn’t vote for yourself.
My oldest brother Thomas got one vote (which was mine), and I got all of the others.
I took control of the business, took control of the family, and never looked back.
“In here,” Linda says with a smile as she presents the open door of the conference room.
Her team is in there as well—lawyers, accountants, and executives. We all introduce each other and then finally sit down.
“The CEO, Kyra Black, is on her way,” Linda says as she sits near the middle of the table. I take a seat opposite her. “She’s bringing over some of our wonderful products for you to test and take a look at. Oh, here she is now.”
I turn as a woman walks into the room holding a stack of boxes. They’re piled so high that they’re covering her face. I burst out of my chair and rush over to help her as the rest of my team stays put in their seats.
“Thanks,” she says with a huff of breath as I take them from her.
My heart stops when our eyes meet. She’s… She’s… I don’t even have the words. She’s… mine. The word reverberates through my head and travels down my body as I stare at her in awe.
She blows a loose strand of hair out of her face as she looks up at me funny.
Those light greenish-gray eyes… They’re haunting. They’re mesmerizing. My breath gets caught in my throat as I watch her looking up at me under those long eyelashes.
“You must be, Mr. Raven,” she says, reaching out her hand.
I suck in a breath as I look down at her hand. It looks so soft, so tiny. I shake it with my heart pounding. My large hand practically swallows hers whole.
My eyes dart back to her stunning face framed by her dark golden brown hair that falls in waves. It catches the light from the window and shines in an ethereal way, making me feel like I’m gazing at an angel or some other kind of beautiful otherworldly being.
Curved bangs cover her forehead, freckles dot the bridge of her nose, and her big full lips spread out into a tight line as I hold her hand a little too long.
I can’t seem to let her go. I can’t seem to look away. She’s rocked me to my core. I’m falling deep over here. I feel an intense obsession with this woman forming in my soul.
Her captivating eyes draw me in. They pull me in. There’s something about them—some mischievous alluring quality that holds my attention. It’s almost as if she knows something that I don’t. That she’s in on a joke and I’m not.
Scars dot her cheeks. From chickenpox or acne, or some other traumatic experience. They draw me in even more. I’ve always found scars so beautiful. They’re life’s artwork. Unique imprints that show a person’s growth and triumph over pain.
Perfection is boring. It’s just a superficial veneer. True beauty comes from strength and character, and what better way to know someone has strength and character than by their scars? They tell the world that this person can’t be beaten. No matter what life throws at them, they get back up. It’s a visible mark of their resilience.
They signal a past that I wasn’t a part of. A past that I don’t know. It kills me that I don’t know everything about her. I want to know her story. I want to know her dreams and passions and desires.