Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“I don’t see how that’s possible when it’s not public yet, thus not recognizable in a photo,” I said, trying not to be distracted by the way Reagan buttoned his tuxedo shirt while the dim light picked out golden glints in his hair.
She sighed. “Because somehow, it has a giant slogan on the front that says ‘Elustre: Sponsor of Your New Year’s Resolutions’ along with our brand logo. And the entire world has seen it, Thatcher. Which means that now, instead of associating Elustre with working out and crushing your goals, people will associate it with seriously poor choices. It’s a public relations nightmare.”
“Fuck,” I muttered, running a hand over my jaw and missing the rasp of my beard. “Fuck. Explain to me how this happened.”
Reagan finished pulling on his tuxedo pants and narrowed his eyes at me in concern. I turned away.
“I think you should be in Layla’s meeting, Thatcher,” January advised. “You’ll need to take an active leadership role in the company’s response.”
“Agreed,” I muttered. “I’ll be there.”
After ending the call, I turned back to Reagan, but he held up a hand before I could speak. “Look, I have no idea what’s going on, but you’ve got shit to do, so—”
I wanted to argue, but he was right. Pennington Industries was my priority, always. I couldn’t afford a distraction with a gorgeous body and disarmingly blue eyes. I should have been glad that he was willing to see himself out so I didn’t have to. And yet…
“Not so fast. I have things to say to you.” I had to end this night properly. With no hard feelings or recriminations but also no doubt that it had happened—I wanted to see the flash of awareness in those brilliant eyes as I pressed this point. With no question that we’d be keeping it confidential and also no expectations of a repeat.
But first, I needed a minute to fucking think.
I grabbed my discarded tux and pointed a finger at him. “Stay,” I said before stepping into the bathroom for the world’s quickest shower.
But when I stepped back into the room a moment later, Reagan Wellbridge was gone.
Chapter Three
Reagan
He’d told me to stay.
I kicked an abandoned noisemaker in the middle of the sidewalk and dodged a pair of drunken revelers.
Stay. Like I was a freaking dog.
They say “never meet your heroes,” but the expression should really be “never fuck the gorgeous man who clued you in to your pansexuality back in high school” because, let me tell you, the fallout was fucking awful.
Yes, sex with Thatcher Pennington had been volcanic, obliterating all my previous fantasies in a fiery rush—and birthing a few new ones involving a growly, dominant partner, besides—but those weren’t the only casualties.
So much for getting people to take you seriously, Reagan. Angry tears sprang to my eyes, making the streetlights blur before I blinked them away. How’s your grand plan of shedding that slacker, nepo-baby image going? Think Thatcher will be telling your dad about your impressive skills when the only things you’ve shown him so far are your incredibly short refractory period and your ability to come on command?
I was so angry my stomach hurt. Angry at the Universe for gifting me an uncomplicated hookup with a gorgeous Roman warrior only to say just kidding the minute the masks came off. Angry at myself for spoiling things yet again, like I was exactly the kind of fuckup everyone thought I was. Angry at Thatcher for knowing my identity when he pushed me on the bed yet giving me horror eyes before our cum had cooled, proving beyond a doubt that tonight had been a discount-sushi-before-an all-day-sea-fishing-expedition-level mistake.
The kind of mistake that could result in me being trapped in yet another horrifying shitshow of my own making if I let it…
So I would not let it.
I let myself into my tiny apartment in Midtown, which made up for its prime location by being measured in square inches rather than square feet, and immediately sprawled on my bed.
Thank god I’d gotten the hell out of that hotel room while Thatcher was in the shower, before he’d had a chance to lecture or, worse, fire me. Hopefully by the time he’d finished dealing with whatever emergency his phone call had been about, he’d go back to forgetting about my existence. Because as fun as parts of the evening had been, fucking my boss ran counter to every single thing I hoped to achieve, so it would never—could never—happen again.
Case closed, lesson learned, I told myself as I shut my tired eyes, pulled the covers over my head, and prepared to sleep my holiday away.
Three hours later, I awoke in the pitch-darkness to find my phone blowing up with missed calls and messages from my boss.
Bossman Stephen: Reagan, are you there? It’s me, Stephen Price.