Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
I fucked up. I do not fuck up. All it took was one disgruntled phone call from someone who our company, and by our company, I mean me because I’m at the top of all of it, tried to help, and that was it. The call I just got a few minutes ago echoes in my head. My lawyer. Not corporate. Personal. It turns out that no matter how much money and power I have, I still need valid paperwork to be here like everyone else.
The moral of the story? Don’t trust someone else to file that type of thing. My lawyer is now fired. And I am now screwed.
Unless I have a backup plan. And people like me—monstrous, puppy-eating vampires—usually have backup plans.
My backup plan is Darby Caughill. I would have been just fine with it if she hated me. As it is, I’m not sure she does. She might not like me, but she’s fair. I’ll give her that. Plus, she’s willing to stand up for me. Okay, so maybe it’s not me. She’s just being reasonable by not letting things get out of hand, and that says more about her than anything.
Either way, I think we’re going to get on just fine.
I pick up the phone in my office and use it to call the number at her desk. “Miss Caughill,” I say in my best—I do indeed enjoy a steady diet of blood and puppies and have ice water running through my veins—voice. “Would you come to my office, please? There’s something I’d like to discuss.”
2
DARBY
Getting called into my boss’ office in the middle of that chat with my co-workers and sort of friends makes me feel guilty in the same way that getting caught with your tongue in the cookie jar would. Because I’ve never understood who would get into a cookie jar with their hand. If you really want something that bad, go all in, people.
Anyway, now that I’m sitting in one of the four leather chairs that are gathered in what I like to call the hospitality space of Leon Montague’s office, facing him down, I feel all of that chocolate chip cookie before dinner incident guilt hitting me hard.
I want to blurt out an apology, especially about the puppies thing, because I know those chats are monitored, but what if IT or whoever is watching them doesn’t really look at them and they just say they do to keep people from getting too wild on them? Or what if they don’t report it because everyone says silly things? Or maybe they haven’t reported it yet, and in that case, I would only be incriminating myself. Kind of. Because I would never say anything about Leon that was bad. I try to defend him most of the time, or at least offer a voice of reason. I’m his assistant. I feel obligated. Right. Keep telling yourself that’s all it is. In all actuality, it would be tattling if he didn’t know, and I can’t do that to anyone.
Leon clears his throat, and I snap out of my uncomfortable, cookie-stealing headspace and tear my eyes off the notepad in my lap to look at him. He’s taking up the whole chair, which is a force of nature for him because he’s six feet something and all muscles. He’s menacing just by being and breathing. I think he might have been born with a literal scowl on his face while doing the finger drumming thing right when he came out to greet the world.
He’s doing it now—drumming the fingers of his right hand against his knee—as those unnerving blue-gray orbs lock onto my face. He’s watching me, and I know that Leon sees everything.
I’ve known him too long to shudder at the thought. His eyes might be cold, but I really am used to them. He always looks that way. So intense. Like he could pick me apart with a single look and find secrets about me that even I don’t know about. His pupils are a little larger than they sometimes are, but as I said in those chats, I think he might have a medical condition. My eyes stray ever so slightly down to his left hand, but he has that tucked against his side, out of sight.
“Miss Caughill.” My name is like velvet in his deep voice. Maybe I just imagine it because while the rest of the office thinks that Leon’s jerk attitude cancels out his hotness, I’ve seen enough of his very real charms to not be so immune.
The man is lethally gorgeous. To be fair, I never stood a chance. It’s the little things I know about him that make for the cracks in his armor. The things that people don’t see. I know he likes one teaspoon of heavy whipping cream in his coffee—the special coffee from that place with the extra greasy beans—I know the measurements on the back of his dress shirts, I know his suits are custom-tailored to fit his impressive frame, and I know he drives an electric vehicle because he actually does care about the environment. I’m always worried about the damn thing leaving me stranded without knowing where or how to charge it. Also, his guilty pleasure and weakness all in one is a good grilled cheese sandwich. And I know he’s in pain.