Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 145231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 581(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 581(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
“The other hot chocolate, Mommy. It tastes like twigs and mud.”
I laugh, wondering how old he’ll be when he changes his mind on coffee.
The elevator dings and we walk over to our unit.
The apartment is dim as usual. At first glance, you might think it’s okay.
It’s spacious enough for a bare-bones one-bedroom, at least, and the silhouettes of furniture look nicer than they really are.
But the instant you switch on the lights, you’ll see the ugly truth.
Everything I own is secondhand, beaten within an inch of its life.
“The other chocolate wasn’t sweet enough either. It was so… bleh!” Arlo rattles on about cocoa as he takes a running leap at the sofa. It bulges under his weight. He sticks out his tongue for emphasis.
“You mean bitter?”
“Yeah! Bitter.”
So was Mr. Rory, I think, shaking my head to dislodge the thought.
“Your tastes change as you grow up,” I explain. Especially the rich clientele The Cardinal wants to be serving soon.
One more reason we need that cocoa bar. Surely, someone might appreciate a little whipped cream or cane sugar to go with their exotically sourced ninety percent cocoa nibs.
“It was nice of him to get you a hot chocolate at all, even if you didn’t like it much,” I say, running out of adjectives.
There are only so many times I can say ‘nice’ when I’m describing Patton Rory without sounding like I’m mangling the word.
Arlo shakes his head until his dark hair falls across his face. He’s about due for a haircut again.
“I dunno. You think anyone has fun with Mr. Grumpybutt around?” His bottom lip juts out.
Smiling, I sigh affectionately.
Then it’s time to get to work on dinner.
I open the cupboard and scrounge around for some boxed pasta and a jar of marinara sauce.
Poor boy, I think while I cook. He has no freaking clue he’s talking about his father. But let’s keep it that way.
If he ever finds out Mr. Grumpybutt, a man who clearly doesn’t like him, is his dad—
Nope. Can’t do it.
I can’t let that happen.
Go ahead and call it unethical or selfish or what the hell ever.
One night with Patton Rory blew my life to smithereens once. I’m not letting him do it a second time.
Also, this life was my mistake—not his—and I’m not dragging him back for money or involvement with a kid I’m sure he’d be allergic to.
At the end of the day, it’s better for Arlo to think his father’s a ghost than a man who wants nothing to do with him.
The sauce starts spitting out of the pot while I’m busy overthinking it and prepping some garlic bread to go in the oven. I almost burn my hand while I turn down the heat.
If I hadn’t let myself go and had too much fun that one time—one time!—I wouldn’t be in this epic mess right now.
Lesson learned.
No more fun.
No more randomness.
No more room for chaos.
It’s work, money, and Arlo, just like it’s always been.
That’s been plenty over the last six years of my life, and it should be enough for the next six years too.
I chew my lip as I look at the artwork lining the corridors of The Cardinal.
It’s perfectly nice, yes, if you like pastoral landscapes and nothing else.
They’re all prints of famous paintings in the big galleries, mainly nineteenth century scenes of rural life, as I discovered last night when I looked them up. But that doesn’t mean they’ll be popular.
In fact, considering I didn’t even know they were famous paintings until I did some research, they might not catch a second glance from a lot of our guests. And my research into the trends at other competitive, high-end modern hotels tells me they like color.
Daring. Bold. Bright.
Not bland and subdued.
I make notes of which paintings could be replaced with a splash of color. I imagine a real designer could make better choices, but if I can prove I’ve done my homework when I send these improvements to Mr. Rory, maybe it’ll raise my abysmal standing in his eyes.
Maybe—and I might be shooting for the moon here—it’ll undo some of the bruising damage Arlo did to my reputation.
Mr. Rory didn’t even show up this morning to the senior staff meeting.
Something else that sets me on edge.
Here I am, waiting breathlessly and dreading his arrival equally.
I want him to be impressed. I want this mentorship on my résumé more than anything, but ideally, I don’t want to see him again beyond the necessary meetings, once I’ve got my bearings.
And no, I don’t have a clue how to reconcile these two desires.
My phone buzzes and my heart jolts until I see the caller.
Not Mr. Rory calling to arrange another meeting—probably to fire me. It’s Kayla.
I should ignore it. I want to ignore it.
Honestly, I’m supposed to be working, so the best thing to do is ignore.