Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
“...you haven’t seen it yet.”
Goddamn.
I chew on my own stupidity, trying to find the right words that’ll convince him my head isn’t three feet up my ass.
“Whenever it comes in, you tell me if it looks good. Use your best discretion, Mr. Dutton.”
He goes quiet, punching notes into his tablet or pretending to. Then he looks up.
“You know, you’re never a fuzzy ray of sunshine who’s actually pleasant to be around, but your grouchy ass usually makes snap decisions pretty well. The workaholic android thing helps make you bearable. If that’s gone...no offense, but you can’t be a major league prick and lazy.”
I snort, well aware of what he’s doing.
He wants to shake me out of my rut, even if that means pissing me off.
I wish it worked.
“Whatever,” I mutter.
“Oh, for the love of—Mr. Winthrope, will you just get this over with? Buy her a dozen roses, knock on her door, swallow your big fat greasy ego, and—you know what?” He throws up his hands. “Screw it. Go have steamy enemies-to-lovers straight people makeup sex, and then come back and act like a fucking grumpy CEO jackass instead of a scolded space cadet.”
I glare at him and sigh.
“You done?”
His lips purse.
Yeah, that’s what I thought.
Keenan stands, clearing his throat and pulling on his tie.
“Call me when you’ve got your head back in the game. I’ll look things over and let you know if I need to escalate. In the meantime, get help.” He darts out the door without glancing back.
When I get home later, nothing improves.
Andy paces back and forth listlessly, pawing at the door when he doesn’t really need to go out. He hates the rain that’s picked up, adding to the city’s dreariness by the bucket.
When I’m lost in my phone for too long, he starts howling.
Grumbling, I unglue myself from my seat just long enough to scoop him up. “You know you’re too short to be a bloodhound, right? What’s wrong, Andouille?”
He licks my face and leaps out of my arms, running to my room barking. He comes back to me less than a minute later and starts for my room again.
I follow him with a rock in my gut.
“Yeah, yeah. I know. I still smell her too. She’s probably not coming back,” I say. “It fucking sucks, buddy.”
It’s like he’s magically started comprehending human speech.
My worst fears just rile him up more, sending him pacing and barking until he slumps at my feet in a coughing fit.
I scoop the dog up and stroke him softly until that asthma cough settles down.
Poor guy.
Once he’s calmer, he follows me over to my bar where I pour myself a brandy, spilling liquid on the back of my hand. I lick it off, muttering to myself.
Keenan wasn’t joking.
This clumsy, moonstruck mess of a human being isn’t me.
And with my whole life in flames, it’s a hell of a time to have my brain turning into a calcified grapefruit.
I throw back the drink and start my gas fireplace. Staring at the flames helps calm down Andy, at least, and soon he’s settled by my feet in a snoring lump of sausage-lab.
My worries hit like hornets burrowing through my chest, stinging me with anger and regret from the inside out.
I think I’ll sleep in my office tonight because there’s a ghost in my room.
And I miss her so much I refuse to believe she’ll ever stop haunting me.
“Houston, we have a problem with the fashion menu,” Keenan says the next morning, standing in front of my desk.
“I thought I told you to take care of it?” I look up from my accounting report, annoyed as all hell.
“And I did. I approved the menu. But when the order was placed, the kitchen complained a few items couldn’t be filled.”
That grabs my attention.
Winthrope normally buys from the best local places everywhere we set up shop in.
The Seattle property is one of our oldest.
We’ve worked with the same suppliers for years, and we know about shortages well ahead of time.
Short of some force of nature calamity, orders are always filled or easily adjusted at the last minute.
“What happened?” I ask.
“From what I’ve gathered, this big guy from Qatar just rolled into town with three yachts. You know, the one who’s always on Instagram with cheetahs and caracals on his jets? He bought up basically every supply of high-end oysters in the entire city for his party.”
How the fuck does Seattle run out of oysters?
“Figure it out. Or do I have to wade through the ocean collecting them myself?” I throw myself back in my seat.
“If you want them badly enough...eh. In case you didn’t hear me, the only way to ‘figure it out’ is to completely change the menu. There are no oyster varieties the chef requested left in the city.”
“Fucking how? We’re sitting on a harbor.”