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)
I’m surprised he sounds so harsh.
Huh.
I’ve also never heard anyone mention a Rory senior before.
There are the three brothers, and I’ve heard of a Mrs. Rory floating around town like a very rich social butterfly, but there’s never been a patriarch figure making his presence known.
Bad blood, maybe? Or is his dad no longer around?
I hate how I want to know, and how he keeps humanizing himself without really trying.
“I get it,” I say. “Miss Hopper feels like my mother sometimes. She’s Mrs., of course, but you know what I mean.”
He nods like he understands.
Must it always be so awkward?
But Patton Rory stands in my office and looks at me like he can read the thoughts in my head. Worse, like he doesn’t hate what he sees.
Who are you and what have you done with my grumpybutt boss?
It almost makes me think of that night again and the easy laughs we shared—until I remember my promise to never go there again.
“What else is on your mind lately?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe.
My eyes snag on his figure as he slouches.
God, even when he isn’t trying, he slays.
He’s a tall man with a runner’s body, lean and built and powerful. Broad-chested and cut from pure sin from the abs on down.
Just looking at him makes me feel self-conscious. I wonder how he’s only gotten hotter since our hookup.
Me, I bounce between twenty and thirty pounds overweight. My skin has stretch marks that weren’t there six years ago before a baby and a mountain of stress. I’m older and worse for the wear than when I was twenty-one, and I was never runway material.
“The Egyptian towels are a rave success. Don’t let it go to your head,” I say grudgingly. Anything to focus back on work. “They’re harder to wash according to housekeeping, but I’ve had several guests say they’re the comfiest towels they’ve ever felt. They even want to bring them home.”
“Does it cut into the budget too much?”
“The one you approved? No, not much.” I resist the urge to call him out more on the budget, but I can’t fault him for not remembering every line item. “I also had another idea to ramp up the luxe feel. Handmade soaps.”
The skeptical look on his face is priceless.
Egyptian towels—imported from Egypt—are clearly fine, but suggesting we try handmade soap from local sellers is outrageous.
“Handmade soaps,” he repeats it like he’s chewing a piece of lemon.
“Well, I heard from around town”—from Kayla, actually, but so far I’ve managed to keep her far away from here, thank God—“that your mom sponsors a lot of art groups. Is that right? This might be a cool way to give back to Kansas City, if she can hook us up with some local sellers who take bulk orders.”
“You heard about my mother? Word does get around,” he says flatly, but his frown seems more conflicted.
I wonder if I’ve messed up. Maybe it’s weird hearing about his mom from me and getting so personal.
“Patton, I just meant—”
“It’s not a bad thought.”
I do a double take, blinking.
“It’s not? Am I dreaming?” Yes, my mouth runs away with itself again.
His eyes brighten. Their glacial, soulless blue doesn’t feel as arctic as usual.
“Don’t get carried away,” he says with a sly whisper of a smile. “I’ll ask my mother for recommendations. If you can find enough room in the budget to get these soaps into every room, it’s a deal.”
“Of course I will!” I’m gushing confidence now. All because a man whose approval I’m not supposed to care about hasn’t blown my idea out of the water.
If anything, he seems surprised, but in a good way.
Not like when Arlo kicked him in the shin.
“Before I ask, do you have any sellers in mind?”
“I can have a look around locally and see what matches our aesthetic. Otherwise, I’m happy to check out whatever you bring back.”
“I’ll get my mom on it. She never turns down a little sleuthing.” He digs his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “She’s the artistic one in the family, not counting my nephew. It skips a generation or some shit.”
Whoa. Did he just admit there’s something he’s not good at?
“Honestly, I don’t have much of an eye for art. But I’m trying.”
“It’s a good start, Miss Hopper.”
“Salem,” I say.
His blue eyes become glinting stars, brighter than ever.
Wow. When he’s not scowling fit to ruin his face, when he looks warm, he brings me back to that night.
The transformation shocks me. He suddenly looks like a man whose company I might enjoy.
“Salem,” he repeats, testing the word like he’s tasting it in his mouth, savoring the flavor like melting chocolate.
Holy hell. It’s more intimate than I expected, more than any time he’s said it before.
“Anyway.” Back to work things. “I should have the reports for you pretty soon.”