Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 106150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106150 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Instead of going around the desk to his office chair, Bash dropped into one of the visitor chairs and pulled me into the other. But he gripped my hand in his, like he thought maybe I’d run away if he let go.
“I’d like you to tell me about your project. About Daisy Chain. I should have let you tell me last weekend, and I regret—”
I started shaking my head before he could finish. “No. You said you didn’t want that between us, and I agreed. I still agree. I’m desperate, I admit that. But I didn’t spend time with you because I wanted an investor, Bash. I didn’t h-have sex with you,” I stammered, “because I wanted you to put in a good word with the Sterling Chase people—”
“I know.”
“I don’t want money from you. Not even for Daisy’s project. I spent the weekend with you because you’re fun and smart and seriously fucking kind. Because when I’m with you, I feel like you see me, even when I’m not being me. Because you make me laugh, and you don’t get impatient when I babble like an idiot. Because I like you…mmmph.”
Bash grabbed me by the back of my neck and hauled me in for another kiss, even more drugging than the last. Oh, god. The taste of him, the feel of his tongue brushing against mine, turned my spine to liquid. By the time he pulled back, I was slumped in the chair.
“You really need to stop kissing me, Bash Dayne,” I whispered.
“Then you need to stop being so fucking kissable, Rowe Prince.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. My brain spun like a Tilt-A-Whirl at the fair. “What do you want from me?”
When I peeked up at him, Bash’s lips were wet and red, and his eyes were intent, like he was giving the question a lot of thought. “For now? Exactly what I said. Tell me about the project, Rowe. Please.”
“You want a… a pitch?” I asked anxiously. “Because I’m still working on some revisions to that. After our conversation, I realized I needed to focus on how it could be profitable, so I started making a PowerPoint—”
“I don’t want a presentation.” He slid his chair closer to mine and took my hand again. “Just talk. I really, really want to know.”
In general, I never needed coaxing to talk about Daisy Chain. In fact, my mom sometimes said I was like a person who’d just come back from a vacation and needed to show everyone his photos, “even though I don’t understand above one word in ten that you’re speaking, Rowe, dear.” I usually tried to stop talking about it.
Bash was different. He was maybe the best listener I’d ever met, which made it hard to hold back, even when I’d had every reason to keep my mouth shut. Now, with him holding my hand in both of his and his eyes locked on mine intensely, I didn’t need much convincing to spill my guts.
When he looked at me like that, like the whole world could fall to ashes around us and he’d still be hanging on to my hand and my every word, it was beyond my capability to deny him anything he wanted.
I took a deep breath and held it for a moment before letting it out in a whoosh. “Right. Okay. Project Daisy Chain is my idea for an emergency response communication system that connects EMTs to medical records, local hospitals, and physicians to improve trauma response outcomes—”
Bash inhaled sharply—the exact inverse of the breath I’d just exhaled—and I could feel his tension ratchet up in the way his fingers clenched on mine. “Well, fuck.”
FIFTEEN
BASH
“P-pardon?” Rowe stammered.
From the moment Austin had told his sad story—a story suspiciously like Rowe’s, with all the supporting documentation conveniently missing—I’d known this was coming. But until Rowe spoke, I hadn’t realized I’d been holding on to a sliver of hope that, despite all the circumstantial evidence, this might just be a coincidence. That Rowe’s project might turn out to be a jewel-matching game, or a dating app, or… Christ, anything but what it was.
Earlier, I’d focused on my need to hurry downstairs and find Rowe—to set eyes and hands on him again—and I’d let that distract me from the enormous potential fallout of this situation. If Rowe’s project really was exactly like the one Austin was taking credit for, I didn’t know what it meant for Sterling Chase, or for me, or for Rowe himself.
Legal and HR would need to conduct a huge internal investigation, for sure. We’d have to comb through every contract Austin had ever signed—every emailed meeting request he’d ever received—to see if this was an isolated incident. There could be press releases and media scrutiny on the company that would set us right in the public eye—which was the last thing any member of my brotherhood wanted…