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)
He goes pale and starts to say something.
I hold my hand up.
“Look, I’m not concerned about the breach right now, but I need delivery in full next week. The Austin property has a tight construction schedule if we want to go live during the seasonal upswing next year.”
Price starts in, “Mr. Winthrope, before rushing to litigation, in my opinion it might be wise to extend a certain grace period—”
I look at the secretary before he finishes.
“Record a one-week courtesy waiver in the meeting notes. One week, and not a day more. I’ll retain my right to arbitration if work isn’t started seven days from now. As soon as we’re finished, please send Mr. Price a copy of the minutes. CC myself and Keenan Dutton.” I stand and look back at my petrified Legal man. “You’ll have to get over it and hope our partners pick up the pace. I don’t have time to waste on bullshit.”
I leave the room and head for my office. You’d be surprised how draining it gets ruling this place with an iron fist.
Keenan walks in through my still-open door holding a manila folder before I even make it to my chair.
“What now?” I ask.
“Miss Piper Renee’s file, as requested. And it is Miss Renee, in case you wondered.” He winks at me.
My look lances through him as I snatch it out of his hand.
Why does fate have to be so goddamned annoying when it smacks you in the face?
Things happen for a reason. I’ve always believed that.
That’s why I’m not taking my unexpected slice of sunshine for granted. She’s here to help with my PR problem.
“Let me have it,” I tell him, leaning back in my chair.
“She’s a new hire in marketing. About twenty-four years old. She comes with an exceptional candidate recommendation from an internal source with three years in the department. Her resume lists a few years of content marketing experience, a bachelor’s in media relations, and...a massive love of dogs and birds.”
I choke back a laugh.
I’ll never understand the birds, but dogs? We might have one thing in common.
“Marketing, huh?” I say absently, reaching into my desk for the same battered tennis ball that always keeps my hands busy when I’m thinking.
I start throwing my ball, wondering if I can get away with moving her without another direct encounter.
The ball strays off course on my next throw.
Keenan ducks before it sails over his head. It bangs the wall behind him and comes bouncing back to me.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
Usually, I like it when things are easy, but if steering her where I need her just requires a word from a supervisor versus a meeting with the CEO, we might get through this without a scandal.
“What’s her role?” I ask.
“Entry-level copywriter.”
Dammit, there might be a good reason for that meeting after all.
Copy grunts don’t handle high-level marketing decisions, and no one will understand a snap promotion without high-level approval.
I don’t need her in copywriting, stringing together words when I’ve seen what she can do on video.
“Let her know I need to see her first thing tomorrow morning.”
Strictly business, I remind myself, hiding a smirk.
I just need help with the review crisis. Wanting her in my office has nothing to do with the way her body molded to mine or the way she tasted on Lanai.
“Will do. Should I come too?” Keenan lifts his brows and gives me his usual incredulous look.
“I think Miss Renee will find my presence demanding enough without adding smart-ass comments,” I say.
“Suit yourself, boss.” Keenan leaves with a chuckle and I turn back to the screen on my desk.
I’m barely logged in when I get a Zoom notification with ROSS WINTHROPE next to it.
Shit.
Why did he have to retire without really retiring so soon? I don’t have anything nearly as under control as Gramps did in his day, and I think he knows it.
My finger stabs a key and Grandpa’s face flashes across my screen. His bright-red tinted shades hang low on his nose like a bad John Lennon impression, and his familiar mane of silver hair has gotten longer and shaggier than ever.
“Congratulations on a few more grey hairs,” I say.
He rolls his eyes. “What can I say, my boy? I thought after you were grown you’d quit making me so distinguished, but we’re still waiting.”
A joke that’s too close to the truth.
Besides the review debacle and marketing snafus, I’ve done nothing but worry my half-retired billionaire grandfather.
“How’s London today?”
“It’s London. Foggy and cool, but there’s a beef bourguignon with my name on it for dinner, so I have no complaints staying busy. I’ve taken up more painting classes—I have to do something with all this free time on my hands.” He gives me a rare smile. “Care to see my latest piece? Your grandmother says I should auction it off for charity, but I say we hang it in the great room after I have it properly framed.”