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)
“Fuck that.” Bash grimaced. “He doesn’t get to receive awards. Let Clarissa have his ticket. Austin can fly home Sunday. We’ll call a board meeting for Monday, where we can present our case against him. Kenji, notify the others as well as HR, okay? And follow up on those background checks. We need them ASAP.”
Silas and Bash shook hands, which quickly turned into a back-slapping hug that showed all was forgiven. Silas held out a hand for me, which was probably a huge concession since I knew he still didn’t trust me fully, but I couldn’t make myself feel much of anything about it.
A billionaire. The guy I lo—liked more than I’d ever liked anyone—was a freaking billionaire. That was a number I couldn’t even comprehend. That was more hairs than I had on my head. More stars than I could see in the sky. More minutes than I’d been alive. Enough money to buy the entire town of Linden, Indiana.
I vaguely heard Kenji promise to order Bash a car and Bash telling Kenji that he’d be bringing a plus-one to the awards thing before Kenji led Silas from the room.
When we were alone, Bash turned and studied me for a long moment.
“Okay, what’s going on in your brain right now?” he demanded. “Did I do or say something to upset you? Because if you’re punishing me for Silas’s paranoia, you might want to reconsider.”
The low, commanding tone of his voice made me shiver against my will. It also made me imagine him taking that tone with me in bed while I was naked and eager to please him in any way he wanted.
“Guh.” I made another embarrassing sound before blinking rapidly while trying to get my mind out of the gutter and retain my dignity.
“Silas was hurt very badly by Justin Hardy, and he doesn’t trust easily anymore. This issue with Austin and the IP is bringing up a lot of things for him,” Bash went on.
I nodded. “Understandable.” Frankly, I understood Silas’s mistrust a lot better than I understood how everyone else—including Bash himself—seemed to be taking it in stride that Bash Dayne had allied himself with Rowe Prince, the criminally poor guy from Bobby’s Tech Barn and occasional Burrito Bandito.
That wasn’t me feeling sorry for myself, either. I knew exactly who Rowe Prince was, and I liked him fine—nervous rambling, terrible lying skills, impetuous hyperfocus, and all. But I also knew I wasn’t meant for a life centered around galas and polo matches and air-kisses.
“Are you worried about the awards banquet? Because it won’t be worse than the Coalition for Children gala, and you survived that.”
“No, I hadn’t even thought about… wait.” I frowned. “I’m the plus-one you told Kenji you were taking?”
“Of course.” His lips tipped up in that irresistible smile. “You really have to be there. Constance will expect a certain quirky billionaire to approve her outfit.”
“Oh, god,” I groaned. The idea of impersonating a billionaire while on the arm of an actual billionaire fried my brain. I was going to have to beg Joey to borrow the bunny tux again.
“You’d better not be thinking of running away again,” Bash warned softly.
I glanced up at that. “I didn’t run. I made a logical, rational choice to leave you in Philly.” And if I were smart, I’d have stuck to that decision. But I couldn’t make myself regret it, either. Not when Bash was close enough that I could smell his cologne and feel the intensity of his gaze on me. Not when I could have one whole week with this man that would sustain me through a hell of a lot of lonely nights to come. I swallowed. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to see this through.”
“Good.” Bash gripped my jaw in both of his hands and pressed a slow, gentle kiss to my lips. “Because if you run from me again, Rowe, I’ll come after you.”
SEVENTEEN
BASH
Bringing Rowe to my house in the Hamptons was fantasy fulfillment at its finest. My only regret was the look of disappointment on his face when he saw how sterile the decor was in my house.
“Everything is… white,” he said, staring at the simple squared-off sofas and matching chairs.
“I warned you. Maybe when all this is over, I can hire you to redecorate for me,” I said, wondering what kind of colorful jumble he’d create in the open-plan space. I could use a few more refinished antiques. And if he wanted to do the work himself, there was a large storage shed in the backyard that the previous owners had referred to as a “chicken coop,” which would be plenty large enough for him to set up a workshop.
“Maybe I won’t wait that long,” he teased. “Maybe I’ll accidentally-on-purpose smear raspberry jam on these cushions just to give the place a little life.”