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)
We were currently parked in a campground near Silverthorne for a planned overnight stop. Here, we could receive packages, get our clothes washed, resupply the bus with groceries, and allow McGee time to freshen the place up. I’d originally planned to catch up on work, but now I had another idea.
“After breakfast, let’s find some ski clothes, then we can Uber to Keystone and hit the slopes.”
Reagan stared at me like I’d grown several extra heads. “But… January packed your schedule full today. You have at least two online meetings and a call from the Zurich people. There’s no way she’ll let you duck out of so many work commitments.”
I pulled out my wallet and slid a credit card free. “You forget she works for me, not the other way around. If I tell her to change the schedule, she will. Besides, most of those meetings are scheduled for this morning. If you pick up clothes for me, too, I can knock out the most important things while you’re shopping.” I handed him the card. “Charge it all to me. Oh, and make sure you get us good socks. Thick wool ones. Cold feet on the slopes are the worst.”
He continued to stare. “I’m not charging my stuff to your card,” he said.
I waved this away. “Consider it a bonus. Or, hell, hazard pay. You’ve been a real asset on this trip, Reagan, and I’d like to treat you to a nice afternoon on the slopes. We can even strategize tomorrow’s meeting with Maya and plan some more social media posts while we’re on the ski lift.”
Reagan shoved my card in his wallet. “I’ll charge your stuff, but I can afford my own ski clothes.” Something in his stilted tone alerted me to the fact I’d struck a nerve, and I frowned.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t,” I agreed slowly.
“I don’t need handouts. I’m an adult, and I’ve been paying my own way for months.” His cheeks went pink. “That might not sound like much since I was living off my parents for years, but—”
“It is. Rent in the city isn’t cheap.” Especially not in a neighborhood like Reagan’s, on the PR assistant’s salary he’d been collecting for the last few weeks. That said a lot about how much he had to be earning from his social media management… just like his prickliness said a lot about how Trent and Patricia had tried to keep him in line.
I reached out and laid a hand on his forearm. “I didn’t offer to pay because I think you can’t afford it. I offered because you wouldn’t need to buy anything if you weren’t on this business trip or had been given more than twenty minutes to pack for it. It’s only fair that your employer carry the cost.” I lifted an eyebrow, hoping he saw a spark of challenge. If he continued to fight me on this, I was not going to be happy.
“Fine.” Tension in his jaw belied his easy response.
Reagan got busy with his tablet while tearing into a granola bar. I took another sip of coffee before pulling my phone out to message January about the change of plans. After a few minutes of texting back and forth with her while Reagan chewed savagely, the bus door opened, and McGee climbed aboard in a blast of frigid air.
“Package from corporate,” he said, tossing a large vinyl mailer bag at Reagan. “Laundry will be ready at four. And I got a menu from a cute little sandwich shop around the corner we could try for lunch or dinner.” He set a small flyer on the table between the two of us, which was when he must have sensed the tension in the air. Instead of asking what was up, he rolled his eyes, muttered something under his breath that sounded like “stupid fuckers,” and closed himself off in his bunk.
Reagan ripped open the vinyl shipping bag with a pleased little “Oh!” and began stacking Elustre garments on the table. I tried to look away, but it was unexpectedly entertaining to watch as he sorted items into piles, apparently based on how much he liked them.
He took out a shirt and sucked in a breath as he stroked the fabric. “Like butter,” he murmured to himself. “Hell yeah. I’m stealing this at the end of the trip.” Meanwhile, a pair of compression shorts earned a disgruntled expression and a muttered “Ew. Sexy online, garish in person.”
“Anything we could wear on the slopes?” I asked.
His face lit up, earlier frustration forgotten. “Yes. In fact, I know exactly what kind of shot I want to get with this piece,” he said, putting his hand on a sharp green-and-blue patterned running shirt. “You’re going to wear it as a base layer under your other stuff.”
As he excitedly tapped notes into his tablet, I let out a slow breath. It had only taken me a few days of a cross-country press tour to learn that seeing Reagan Wellbridge happy improved my own mood exponentially and that the happier he was, the happier I wanted to make him. Like so many things with Reagan, this was easy and natural… and torture.