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)
“Inside, I think.” Reagan pulled back one of the curtains and contemplated the bed before tossing down his pillow. “This will be just like summer camp. Of course, I was a bit shorter then.”
“You’ll be fine,” I said flatly.
McGee didn’t say a word, but his entire body radiated disapproval as he hefted Reagan’s luggage onto one of the other bunks, and that only made me more annoyed.
What did McGee expect me to do? Offer to share my king-sized bed? Give it up entirely? Why should Reagan be comfortable while I would be anything but for as long as we were stuck together?
Reagan emptied his sack of groceries into the refrigerator—a giant bottle of oat milk, three coconut milk yogurts, several cans of sparkling water, some apples, and a six-pack of mead, not that I was watching closely—then turned to me with a look of exaggerated dismay. “Oh, darn, I should have asked permission before I put my things away! Is it okay for me to store my oat milk in your refrigerator, Mr. Pennington? Or should McGee put it in the cargo hold instead?”
McGee—the traitor—snickered as he headed back to the driver’s seat.
“Stow your damn groceries, Wellbridge,” I said sourly. “And be silent, please. I have work to do.”
I stood to retrieve my laptop from my bag, but the moment I sat back down, Reagan slid into the seat opposite me. “You know, maybe you’d feel better if we discussed what happened.”
“Nope.” I opened my computer as McGee pulled out into traffic.
“Are you sure?” he taunted. “Before I left the hotel last night, you seemed to want to—”
I gave him a look that could have melted asbestos. “Reagan.”
He held up both hands with overblown innocence, like he knew exactly how close I was to losing my cool entirely and he enjoyed it, the provoking little shit.
All the things I’d wanted to clarify last night—that it had been a mistake, never to be repeated—seemed patently obvious to both of us already, and talking about sex, even in the past tense, while Reagan was right there, all aquamarine eyes and flushed cheeks, was asking for trouble.
When my phone rang again, I answered my assistant’s call with the desperation of a drowning man grabbing a life preserver. “January, perfect timing. Have we gotten an update on the Munich project—?”
“Thatcher,” January cut me off. “Thalia called.”
Just when I thought my headache couldn’t get worse.
My first ex-wife and I had started out as good friends with common goals. Even after our divorce and her remarriage to a Hollywood producer, we’d remained friendly. But there was only one reason Thalia ever called these days. Which meant…
“Brantleigh’s in trouble,” January confirmed.
I straightened in my seat, ignoring Reagan’s frown of concern. “What kind of trouble?” There was a tremor of fear in my voice as visions of Nova Davidson’s paparazzi photos swam across my brain. “Tell me he didn’t wreck another car, January. Or crash that stupid little plane of his—”
“No,” January said firmly and apologetically. “Sorry, Thatcher. I should have led with that. He’s not sick or injured.”
“Okay.” I blew out a breath. I could deal with anything else.
“You know how Thalia is. When I told her you weren’t in the office, she just started relaying all the information to me, like she didn’t have time to hang up and call your cell phone—”
“I get it. Stop apologizing and tell me what she said.”
“Apparently, Brantleigh got personally involved with an actor starring in one of his stepfather’s movies—”
I’d foreseen this, but I felt no joy at being proved correct. “Again?”
“Yeah. Brantleigh has been working as a production assistant for his stepfather under the strict condition that he, and I quote, keep it in his pants while he’s on set, but unfortunately… he didn’t.” She sighed. “I don’t get why anyone would risk their career and their family for a guy, no matter how hot he is.”
My eyes met Reagan’s for a brief moment before I looked away. “The facts, January.”
“Right. Sorry. Anyway, their relationship imploded, and the actor actually threatened to quit the movie. Thalia and her husband are over it. So, Thalia packed Brantleigh off for a yoga retreat as punishment. She hopes that practicing mindfulness and drinking wheatgrass juice for the next ten days will help center him.” January hesitated. “Do we think Thalia knows what punishment means?”
I slumped in my seat and squeezed my eyes shut like I could block out the world. “What the hell is that going to do? He’s twenty-eight, for fuck’s sake.”
You couldn’t force maturity on a person, could you? Clearly, I was no parenting expert.
“When he gets back,” she went on, “Thalia’s forcing him to move out, and she’d like you to use your influence on him to, quote, help him find his path.”
“My influence. Right.” Any influence I might have had on my son had faded by the time he was a teenager. I’d tried to stay active in his life, to show him my business or, when he proved uninterested in that, to help him figure out what else he wanted to do. But time and again, he’d brushed me off, spending most of his time on the West Coast. I’d been busy with my second marriage, my ever-expanding business, my second divorce, and now… “I’ll take care of it,” I said wearily, though I didn’t have any more bright ideas about how to accomplish that than I’d ever had. “Anything else I should be aware of?”