Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
“So, why are you working for me? Not that I’m complaining.” He winks at me. I smile back, but it feels strained. I fight to hide my true emotions. The guilt. Regret. Anger that some fuckboy stole my job. I take a sip of my wine, allowing myself a quick moment to gather my emotions.
“It’s a very cutthroat industry. I let my guard down and made a silly mistake. Somehow my truffle oil was swapped for mushroom oil. An oil the inspector dining at the restaurant was coincidentally allergic to. It cost the restaurant their chance at a Michelin star because the final inspector was rushed to the hospital from an anaphylactic reaction. Not only was I fired, but word spread of my incompetency, and I was blacklisted from any kitchen within a billion-mile radius.”
Theo reaches over and grabs my wine, setting it on the island. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
All the hurt and betrayal start resurfacing, but I push it down. “Don’t be. It worked out. I snagged a job at this really fun bar and met one of my best friends. My parents weren’t the biggest fan of my new career choice, so my mom butted in and had my aunt call in a favor. Apparently, she has friends in high places and who knew a big wig CEO who was in desperate need of an assistant.” I shrug. “Before I knew it, I was tripping into you and expecting to be turned away as soon as you saw me.”
He doesn’t say anything. His steely gaze has me shifting in my chair. Why did I just confess all that? I’m clearly not the average woman he brings home, and now my sad, pathetic story probably has him rethinking this whole thing. He takes his phone out and dials a number. Great, he’s calling me a cab. And he should. Who wants to get in the sack with such an underachiever? I should have lied and told him I was an aspiring actress or something.
“Grant, I need you to cancel the catering and send up every ingredient needed to make homemade pizzas. Yes. Thank you.” He hangs up.
“Wait—what are you doing?”
“Making pizzas.”
“Why? I thought you ordered—”
“That was before you told me about your true passion. So, we’re making pizzas.”
“You can do that? Just cancel a catering order and demand pizza ingredients?”
“I can.”
“Ahhh, to be important.” I laugh and pick up my wine glass and take a sip of the insanely delicious wine.
“I’m not important. I’m rich.”
I eye him over my glass. “To be that too.”
His lips press together, and something unfamiliar flashes in his eyes. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. So be careful what you wish for.” His sullen expression is gone as fast as it came.
“Okay, fine. Tell me something about you. Where did you grow up?”
He takes another sip of his bourbon. “I’ve lived in New York City my whole life. Went to Harvard for business. Spent two years in France learning about investment banking and foreign markets. When I came home, my father brought me on as a senior consultant at MIC. Two years ago, he stepped down and named me CEO. The end.”
“Okay, thanks for the resume. I asked you to tell me something about you. What do you like to do?”
He scowls but eases up. “I used to enjoy playing tennis. Used to do heavyweight rowing, but I don’t get to do either much anymore. I love horror flicks, but watching movies doesn’t fit in my busy schedule. I read. I find it fascinating the way others view the world. There’s so much we don’t know. I’ve always wanted to do something insane like climb Mount Everest. I’ve read over a handful of books about it. Not that I ever will. But hearing about other journeys is captivating. People are doing things with their lives outside of arguing about money and investments. Makes my accomplishments seem mundane.” He stops and takes a breath, staring off. I don’t think he meant to share as much as he did. “I’m sorry, I must have—”
“Nothing to be sorry for. I like seeing this side of you. Sometimes the ‘all work and no play’ persona gets old.”
He nudges my thigh. “Are you saying I’m no fun, Miss Evans?”
“I’m saying you are definitely uptight and can use a little relaxation—” I squeal, almost spilling my wine when he grabs me and pulls me from my stool onto his lap.
“Maybe this is my relaxation.”
“Are you saying this is your playtime?”
“You’re my playtime.” He slowly leans in, pressing his lips to mine. Just like the kiss at the hospital, this kiss is slow and deliberate. He takes time exploring my mouth. Grabbing my wine glass out of my hands, he places it on the counter and lifts me so I’m straddling him. I love the way our bodies feel pressed together. This may be a secret fling, but it’s starting to feel like something more.