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)
It also figured that I found myself in this predicament—up this damn mountain—with no plan for how to get down gracefully. Confessing my feelings might make me feel better for half a second, but what good would it do? Thatcher liked me, I knew he did, and trusted me, too, but was he going to push aside all his priorities, all those things he felt responsible for, to date his most junior junior employee, who was almost twenty years younger than him, his politician friend’s son, and no longer on speaking terms with Brantleigh? In the immortal words of Trent Wellbridge when I’d asked him to let me manage his campaign social media, “Hahaha! Reagan, son, what would a man want to do that for?”
So, I fell back on doing what I always did when I had things to say that couldn’t be spoken—I smiled and charmed and said nothing of substance while trying very hard not to get snippy with the beautiful man who’d done nothing to deserve it. The rest of the drive to Omaha was filled with a mix of shallow banter, shop talk, and an unusually high number of odd looks from Thatcher.
I understood his confusion. I was giving him the kind of hot-and-cold treatment one might have expected in a medieval torture spa. But I was confused and conflicted, too. And if he felt me attempting to pull away from him like I had in Kansas, at least this time, he didn’t question me about it. On some level, he had to understand that the more we talked, the more we shared, the more… entwined we got, the harder it would be to unpluck ourselves from one another in Honeybridge.
The good news was I managed to get a lot of work done. I contacted several news outlets, explaining our change of schedule, and even though it was a Sunday, a surprising number got back to me immediately and agreed to cover Thatcher’s Honeybridge appearances. I created some reports on our increased social media engagement and copied them to everyone in PR. And I managed to draft a couple of new posts for the PennCo Instagram using photos Thatcher and I had taken in Colorado.
One of the shots I found in our shared picture library was a solo picture of me that Thatcher had taken during our ski trip when I wasn’t looking. I was standing alone in my brand-new gear, hands on my hips, staring out at the snowy mountain and the brightly colored skiers just outside the frame. I was pretty sure I’d been thinking sappy thoughts of Thatcher at that moment—about the irony of having the lift up the ski run being the terrifying part of the experience, rather than the moguls and the death-defying speed on the way down, and wishing I could always be there to hold his hand when he needed me—but if any of that had been visible on my face, you couldn’t tell from the angle of the shot. Instead, I looked strong. Resilient. Capable. So I stole the picture and uploaded it to my personal Instagram, needing the little dopamine rush I always got when I posted.
It took me a lot longer than it usually did to come up with a caption, though. I typed and deleted more than Thatcher did when he was sending a text to Brantleigh. In the end, I decided on To fresh powder and new adventures! #wanderer #eyesonthepinnacle #keepmovingforward and hit Post. And if the cheerful words felt a little forced this time, more like a lie than a reframing of the truth, well, that was just a sign that I really needed the reminder they provided. I needed to control the things I could control, like building my career, attaining my goals… and not making it any harder or more humiliating to end this fling with Thatcher than it already would be.
When it came time to sleep for the night, I didn’t even need to fake the excruciating headache that my stress and confusion had caused. Thatcher had insisted I head back to his room to lie down shortly after our dinner stop, and I’d fallen dead asleep before he’d even finished talking to McGee about the arrangements January had made for replacement drivers.
Upon our arrival in Omaha the following morning, we rushed to a sustainability event hosted by Union Pacific. Layla had arranged a private brunch with several key executives from the railway company, and we knew there would be a couple of reporters included to cover the high-level meet-up to give both companies good coverage for their efforts at sustainability.
When we walked into the elegant dining room, Thatcher was immediately hailed by the event organizers. Meanwhile, I was met by another familiar, smiling face.
“Reagan,” Chris Acton said warmly. “Nice to see you again so soon. I’d heard a rumor your schedule was changing. Wasn’t sure you were going to stop here after all.”