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)
So what if he thinks I’m a serial failure? Anyone else would think the same thing after seeing my résumé. It’s not the end of the world.
It’s just one more low blow that reminds me why he’s awful, and no truce will ever change that.
The irritation on his face fades as he studies me.
“Shit, what are we doing?” His eyes are the same arctic shade as before, but instead of a wall, I sense emotions there. I pick them out like colors in a rainbow.
Regret. Frustration. Anger.
Mostly aimed at himself, I think.
There’s also something else I can’t identify like the blurry line between indigo and violet.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Salem, I didn’t mean it.”
“But you did,” I mutter quietly.
Maybe I should be so pissed, but there’s no room for anger past the disbelief squeezing my lungs.
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
“For once, we agree.”
He takes a step closer.
He could touch me now, if he wanted, but thankfully he doesn’t. I’m not sure I could stop myself from throwing the small trash can next to me at his head if he did.
“Tell me what I can do to make it up to you,” he says.
“Make it up to me?” I laugh harshly. “Like how? Taking me up to a rooftop bar and plying me with booze so I forget you insulted me to my face? That hurt, Patton.” He looks away and I snort, the sound too bitter. “The last time we did that, we cursed ourselves. Just look where we are now, stuck together and ready to strangle each other.”
It’s in his eyes.
He flinches, even if his wall of a body doesn’t quiver a bit.
“Go on, get it out. Tell me how shitty I am. Just know if you were anybody else on my staff—”
“So fire me!” I grip my pen like a knife, almost in disbelief at what I’ve just said. Here comes my next failure, I guess, served up piping hot. “Or if you won’t, just—just let me work so I can get home at a decent hour without owing the babysitter overtime.”
I keep my back straight, waiting for the inevitable moment where he knows we can’t continue on like this. Where he pushes me out and brings in someone else to undo all of my hard work, erasing any mark I ever left on The Cardinal.
I’m sure he’s just been waiting for an excuse, right?
But he flicks his gaze at the computer screen and the spreadsheets still displayed there.
“I want your report by Monday. Your own self-imposed deadline.” That’s all he says as he turns and storms out.
God.
I let my head thump on the desk, dislodging my neat cards and sending them cascading into a mess.
God.
This is it.
What is it about this ridiculous man that turns me into a pretzel of pure chaos?
How is it we can have an almost human conversation one minute yet it feels like pure torture the next?
I’m starting to see why your past ventures never got off the ground.
It’s the kind of quippy thing I might say when I’m angry. Lashing out, claws extended, just like a cornered cat. Pure defense mechanism.
But he knows where it hurts, and with the disbelief fading, I’m left with the sting that resonates to my core.
“Blue-eyed prick,” I mutter, picking up where I left off.
Why couldn’t he have shown his evil side the night we met?
But if he had, I’d be trading Arlo for a different life, and I’d never do that in a billion years.
I just hate the fact that I’m stuck living this one, where he gets to be the biggest dick I’ve met, and I still have to thank him.
Without Patton Rory, though, my sweet son wouldn’t exist.
That’s a cruel, cold fact written in the stars.
The price is this creeping insanity, living another day where we’re playing a game of chicken, and managing my feelings like I can somehow talk a volcano into staying calm.
8
SPIN AT THE WHEEL (PATTON)
Inever thought mentoring would break me after all my years in business.
I’ve organized deals and landed contracts that had the potential to bring the company to its knees in its infancy—and with the Forrest Haute case, it almost did.
I’ll admit, that one was a blunder.
But even that stress hasn’t rubbed me raw half as much as Salem Hopper.
Why is it so damn difficult?
She isn’t the first intern I’ve ever had. The other property managers we have on payroll haven’t caused me an inch of trouble.
It’s a me thing, probably.
It fucking has to be.
It shouldn’t bother me that she’s still standoffish after my latest fuckup. She sent the survey reports to me as promised, finished her other work, and I sent back a handwritten note of thanks.
With anyone else, I would’ve made a call. Only, I know she wouldn’t take me growling in her ear as a sign of gratitude.