Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Hunter and I were always doing crap like that—swapping places when we could and causing mischief. It’s a good thing we were neighbors and best friends, and not identical twins, because, Jesus, we’d have gotten into so much trouble.
I fiddle with a corn chip, breaking off one end and popping it in my mouth, chewing to buy myself some time.
“You’re being really weird about this,” Hunter grumbles. “I have a right to know. It’s my company, too.”
God, I hate when he’s right.
“Fine. I found her at a coffee shop. She needed a job, I offered her one, end of story.”
Hunter scoffs mid-sip, shooting strawberry margarita into the air. “Stop acting so blasé about it. We both know you had to convince her.”
“Not true.” Nope. She forced my hand by being a hard-ass, because that is the sassy, strong-willed woman she is. And with every fucking unrelenting word from her mouth, I wanted to kiss her. Devour her. And I am not telling Hunter that. “Technically I could have figured a marketing plan out without her help.” Eventually.
I casually take a sip of my drink while Hunter shoves his mouth full of chips.
“God, do you actually believe your own bullshit? You know we can’t do it without her.” A smile plays at his lips as he chews. “When is our first meeting with her?”
I cock a brow. “What do you mean, our?”
“I have skin in this game, too. I want to make sure we’re on the right track, keep you in line.”
The last thing I want is him meddling. “I can handle it.”
What is Hunter up to?
He’s never interested in the marketing campaigns—I can’t recall one damn meeting he’s attended. What he is interested in is tents; he has some weird obsession with the innovation of new tent designs, and whenever we come out with a new style, he wants to be a part of every aspect of it.
He’s the one that tests them all out. He has no hand in how they’re advertised, produced, or sold.
That’s my area of expertise.
Hunter shakes his head and brushes his hands off into the black napkin resting on his lap. “From here, it doesn’t seem like you have a handle on anything. It actually seems like you’re drowning.” He makes a fish face. “Blub. Blub. Blub.”
“I’m not drowning. My marketing department is incompetent.”
“Our marketing department.”
I roll my eyes.
He points his rigid finger at me. “This is all on you, boss, I’m out in the field pitching tents.” He pops another chip loaded with salsa in his mouth. “I have her info, I’ll set up a meeting.”
“Please don’t.”
“But I’m gonna.” He rubs his hands together. “I’ve been bored, and this is gonna be so fun.”
Why do I get the feeling this is going to be more than a meeting about a women’s line?
* * *
“Nice place,” Hunter says, looking around and pulling out a wooden chair in the back of the coffee house, away from everyone else. “Very modern with the urban country décor. Oh look.” He points behind me with a giant smile. “Shiplap.”
Jesus H Christ.
I drag my hand over my face; this is not going to end well.
Sliding into the booth next to Hunter, he scowls down at the seat.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, eyeing me up and down.
What is his problem? “Taking a seat, what the hell does it look like?”
“If you sit there, it’s going to look like we’re one of those weird couples who sit next to each other rather than across.”
“The fact that you think we’d even make a decent couple repulses me. You’re not my type.”
He’s nonplused. “I’m just saying; I hate those people. They make me sick.”
“We have to sit next to each other; this is a meeting. When she gets here, she’ll sit there.” I point to the seat across from us. “And we can talk easier.”
“Well, she’s not here, and we both look like idiots.” He motions to the other side of the table. “Sit over there for fuck’s sake.”
“Now it just looks like we’re having a lover’s squabble.” I laugh as he nudges me with his hip, trying to edge me off the booth bench.
“You think I want a woman to see me jammed in a booth with you? I’ll lose all credibility.”
Whatever. I’m not in the mood to argue with him, so I scoot out, taking the seat in the corner, placing my iPad on the table in time to see Peyton rounding the corner from the small entry of the coffee house.
Her dark, shoulder-length hair is wavy and mussed today—as if she spent the morning on the beach, soaking up the salty air. Long, summery skirt in a neutral shade of gray, it hugs her swaying hips. Her tight tank top is gray; necklace, silver and hanging between her breasts.