Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 53907 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53907 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 270(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
"You're not wrong," I agreed.
"But it's hard," she concluded for me.
"It probably shouldn't be, considering all he's done. But yes."
"Maybe because you still see him as your little brother instead of a full-grown man."
"Again, you're not wrong," I agreed.
"It's probably easier for me to say it than for you to act on it. I'm an only child. I don't fully understand the sibling dynamic."
"It's a tough one to explain," I admitted. "I spend eighty-percent of my time arguing with him or being pissed at him, but I can't shake the attachment either."
"That's... unexpectedly sweet, though."
"I'm not a complete asshole," I said, tensing.
"I never said you were."
"I know you see me as cold and—"
"You don't know what I think about you," she cut me off, shaking her head.
"I'm coming to conclusions since you seem to be avoiding me like I've contracted the plague."
"I'm working," she countered, but I thought it was telling that she didn't say she wasn't avoiding me.
"Must be more difficult work than usual," I observed. "Your usual uniform has changed."
Gone were the dresses and skirts that could easily slide up. She'd been wearing slacks since the party. High-waisted slacks with tucked in button-up shirts that she actually buttoned all the way up. And wore a bra under just for added concealment.
"It's been really cold out," she told me.
And, to be fair, she wasn't lying. December's freeze had come on hard and fast, plummeting the average daily temperatures to an average of thirty, with colder nights and mornings.
"Oh, speaking of that," I said, though it was a weak segue at best. Moving around my desk, I went into the top drawer to pull out a new key fob. I spun it around my finger before tossing it toward her.
She caught it with drawn together brows. "What's this? Do you need your car washed?" she asked.
"No. That is the key to the car I want you to use."
"Wait... what?" she asked, looking more confused than before.
"No offense, Wynn, but I swear your car was hacking up a lung last night. You need to be driving something reliable if you are going to be able to get your work done around here."
"Oh, okay. So I will drive this when I run the errands, and just save gas receipts for you?" she asked.
"You will drive it to and from work as well."
"What? No."
"Yes. If your car finally craps out on you when you need to be here to oversee something being done, there will be a problem. Drive this car instead. And, yes, save the gas receipts."
"And mileage reports," she muttered.
"No. I don't give a shit about the mileage."
"But what if I used it for personal use?" she asked, rolling her eyes.
"Again, I don't give a shit about that. It's just a car."
"Just a..." she started, her gaze going down to the fob, seeing the logo there. "This is not just a car."
"Sure it is."
"This is a touchscreen key fob. I can't imagine how expensive the car that goes with this is."
"Wynn, it's just a car."
"What if I crash it? Or dent it with a shopping cart?" she asked, eyes big.
"Then I will fix it."
"That's ridiculous."
"What's ridiculous is that we're arguing over this," I countered.
"This isn't an argument. This is me informing you that I can't be driving around a luxury car."
"Why not?"
"Because... because it isn't mine."
"It is yours in everything but the actual title. I don't see the problem."
And I won't have to worry about you freezing on your way to and from my house anymore, either.
Not that it was appropriate to think about shit like that when it came to an employee. But, then again, there was a lot that was inappropriate about what went on with Wynn and me.
Or, at least, there had been.
"I..." Wynn started, not sure what she was going to say, but wanting to object.
"It's not a big deal."
"What if it gets stripped? I don't live in the nicest area."
There was a twisting sensation in my gut at her words. I couldn't help but picture her in some crummy apartment in some bad area of town with unsavory sorts waiting in dark alleys to reach out to her.
I had the most irrational urge to demand she move into the guest room. Hell, into my goddamn bedroom.
What the hell was going on with me?
"I won't hold you responsible."
"I, ah, I'm going to need to see that in writing," Wynn declared, giving me a nod.
"That will ease your mind?"
"Yes."
"Fine," I said, grabbing my notepad and pen. "'Wynn is in no way responsible for any damage or mileage that might happen to the car I have given to her to use while she is under my employ. Signed Fitzwilliam Buchanan. Good enough?"
"I think it isn't binding unless it's notarized."
"You're serious?" I asked, a laugh escaping me.
"Kinda, yeah."
"Alright. I will get it notarized on my way to work tomorrow."