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)
And it didn’t have to be that way.
PennCo was a company built on innovation, so why was Layla so against innovating our approach to public relations with social media? And maybe it wasn’t fair to lay all the blame at her feet—maybe that was my lingering bitterness and jealousy from the meeting talking—but even Nataly, who adored Layla, had admitted this was a blind spot.
The more I thought about it, the more keyed up I got, so that by the time six hours had passed and McGee pulled into a truck stop to take a driving break around midnight, I was so overtired and so unreasonably, incandescently bitter I was ready to storm off into the West Virginia night and call an Uber back to Manhattan. If this was what a career in public relations was all about, then maybe spending my life in front of the cameras as Trent Wellbridge’s dim but photogenic son was a viable option.
Of course it was at this moment that Thatcher poked his head out of what I could only imagine was his luxurious bedroom suite, probably woken by the sudden lack of road noise.
“Hey,” he croaked, running a hand over his face. “What’s going on?”
Professional, I reminded myself. Polite. Distant.
“McGee’s taking a break, and I’ve been working on the notes for your speech and some press stuff. I have some… concerns—” I glanced up. Thatcher had changed out of his suit and into a cashmere sweater and comfortable pants. He looked sleepy. Warm. Utterly lickable.
My dick throbbed.
I stood so fast I bumped my knee against the table, grabbed my phone and jacket, and headed for the door. “I’m concerned that I really need to stretch my legs,” I called over my shoulder as I ran down the stairs.
“Fuck,” I said into the dark abyss as I stomped across the parking lot despite my bruised knee, fueled by frustration and unwanted lust. My breath fogged in the freezing air like tiny storm clouds that disintegrated into the night air as quickly as they formed, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to laugh or cry.
The buzz of my phone in my pocket startled me, and I immediately pulled it out. Only my family bothered calling instead of messaging, and I could use the distraction.
“Reagan! I feel like I haven’t talked to you all year!” my brother exclaimed, then dissolved into laughter at his own joke. “Get it? ’Cause it’s January first—”
I groaned. This was not the distraction I needed. “Yeah, I get it,” I said shortly, stomping past the edge of the parking lot lights, hopefully out of earshot of the bus. “Unfortunately.”
“Uh… pardon me,” JT said after a long pause. “I must have the wrong number. I was looking for my brother, Reagan Wellbridge. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Short guy, ridiculous eyes, uncanny ability to pretend nothing fazes him? Who’s this?”
I rolled my “ridiculous” eyes. “Fuck off,” I said without heat. “No one over six feet is ‘short.’ You’re just too tall.” I refused to explain that my ability to appear unfazed was proving unreliable when Thatcher was around. “Shouldn’t you be annoying your boyfriend at this hour?”
“Already done,” he said proudly. “In fact, I did it so well that just a minute ago, Flynn said, ‘Frog, my darling, you’re so annoyingly sexy I can’t concentrate on closing the tavern. Why don’t you wait for me at home?’”
“Bullshit,” I said, amused in spite of myself. “You forget I’ve known Firecracker nearly as long as you have. He said, ‘Frog, stop distracting me and go away,’ didn’t he?”
JT laughed. “Possibly. But he was kissing me when he said it, so I knew how to interpret his grumpiness. Love’s all about interpretation,” he said sagely.
I snorted again and kept stomping.
“What the hell are you doing right now?” JT demanded. “It sounds like you’re hiking up a mountain. Or possibly bullfighting. Or… rappelling down the Brooklyn Bridge in the wind.” He hesitated. “You’re not dangling from a bridge, are you? I’m imagining some New Year’s resolution about nighttime adventure sports to delight your followers?”
I huffed out a laugh that sent more white vapor billowing. “Definitely not. Though that might be preferable to what I’m actually doing. I’m in rural West Virginia, and I’m walking around a truck stop parking lot so I don’t freeze.”
“Dear god, why?”
“Why am I in West Virginia? On a quote-unquote business trip. And I’m on a business trip because… did you hear about the Nova Davidson debacle?”
“The what? Who’s Nova?” he demanded, sounding just like someone’s crotchety grandma.
I filled him in on everything that had happened last night—to Nova, at least—and the plans for PennCo’s goodwill tour I got roped into. “Since she was wearing that shirt made from PennCo Fiber’s new fabric, we need to do damage control, hence the impromptu trip,” I explained.