Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 161434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 807(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 161434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 807(@200wpm)___ 646(@250wpm)___ 538(@300wpm)
Shit.
If I had a genie, I’d wish to undo that day in a heartbeat.
But there are lots of other days you need to undo too, aren’t there?
It’s been roughly six months since the slap-happy champagne-to-the-face incident and Reese still thinks I was with her to make Carmen jealous.
It’s true. I wanted Carmen to know it was over.
I never cared if she was jealous or not. If I’d had a functioning brain that day, I should have taken another girl, someone I didn’t know. I damn sure shouldn’t have taken Reese that night.
Out of old habit, I pour a couple fingers of brandy, hold up the glass, and...recoil in disgust.
Isn’t this liquid fuckery part of what got me in this mess?
Sighing, I toss the booze in the sink and glug down a large glass of water from the faucet before calling Susan.
“Nicholas, hello. To what do I owe this late-night phone call?” she asks, a polite way of saying who did you murder to justify calling me this late?
“I need help. Can you get the C-level team a temporary driver for tomorrow and preferably a few more days?”
“What happened to Reese Halle?” she asks immediately.
I swallow a groan.
“She’s had a family emergency. A rather serious one. I told her she could take paid vacation. How much does she have?”
Susan sniffs. “I can’t tell you that without her permission.”
“No worries. If she runs out of PTO before she’s back, let me know,” I say sharply.
“Of course. I have to ask...is Miss Halle okay?”
My eyes pinch shut a second too long. People keep asking me that and it’s a fair question. Truthfully, I don’t fucking know.
I hope so. I need to find out. And if she’s not, I need to make her okay again.
“Yes,” I say, a little too slowly.
“Did someone die?” Susan asks quickly.
“No, nothing like that. More like a personal crisis. Frankly, it’s probably better to ask her about it when she gets back. We just need a driver until she returns, and in the meantime, it’s my job to make sure she’s taken care of.”
“Hmm, well, informally I believe she has a little over two weeks of paid vacation banked. She’s only been here just over a year, but she doesn’t take many days off. If it looks like she’s running thin on PTO before she’s back in the office, I’ll certainly let you know.”
“Thank you.”
I cut the call and stalk over to my fridge, desperately looking for something to sip that won’t invite more trouble.
A couple bright cartons of Florida orange juice stare back at me.
Radioactive OJ it is, then.
Three glasses and an antacid later, I lie in bed alone, staring out at the Chicago skyline stretched across the window. Buildings rise wild like blades of silver and blinking tinsel-gold lights. It’s a beautiful, cool night and this is a comfortable bed. I’m cocooned in a world of comfort and luxury the average person would die for.
In theory, I should be grateful.
I’m not.
This is how I always end up, sooner or later.
Alone. Frustrated. Waiting for the next disaster.
Before, I didn’t mind it, because the next day always offered a new escape and my worries always seemed to work themselves out.
Now, I realize I’m trapped, slowly being pulled under a riptide of menacing comfort. I’ve fucked up too much. I can’t escape my past, and who would ever want to share my reputation?
Brandt Dreams could easily go belly up, too, no matter how much elbow grease I throw into it.
Ward inherited the diehard trust our people had for Grandma. They turn to him first.
Since I’m the head honcho at Dreams, my brother isn’t there to back me up, much less lift morale. It’s entirely on my shoulders, and even if I make it my world to hold up, it’s impossible not to slip with assholes like Carmen and Roland Osprey tossing banana peels in my path.
Fuck. I wish I hadn’t tossed that brandy tonight.
I stare at the skyline for who knows how long, hypnotized by the dream of better lives happening behind those tiny, distant windows strewn across the city.
At some point, I must fall asleep with my phone by my ear, because I wake to a deafening notification sound. Probably Roland Osprey still hounding me.
I jerk up with a groan and look at the screen.
That’s Reese’s number. I hit open faster than I should.
Just confirming I can’t come to work today. I’m so sorry. But I’ll be back ASAP. Probably tomorrow.
Without thinking, I start typing. Don’t come back tomorrow, Reese. Deal with this shit and don’t worry about anything else. Did the lawyer get in touch yet? If not, I’ll find you another one. How’s Millie?
Before hitting send, I hesitate.
Ten seconds later, I delete the entire thing.
Telling her not to come in tomorrow will just upset her more. So will badgering her over using my legal resources.