Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
By some miracle I didn’t say or do anything stupid, like punch my boss in the nose or toss Ava over my shoulder so I could get her ass out of there as swiftly and safely as possible. I need to get that girl a chastity belt ASAP.
Then there was Nora’s reaction to meeting my family. She was kind. Suspiciously so. And patient. And sweet. And interested. I almost got the feeling she really did want to join us on the dance floor, maybe because she looked lonely standing at the bar by herself.
Or maybe I’m just projecting. Chances are she was making fun of us too. Worse, what if she felt bad for us? For me? The idea that Nora Frasier pities me makes me want to rip my own face off.
Shit like this is exactly why I keep my professional and private lives separate.
I’m on the desk before six on Monday morning. My trading book’s gotten huge over the past week, passing the billion-dollar mark. I have pages and pages of axes to update and send out to the sales force. There’s money to be made if I focus and stay on task.
My pulse still freezes every time I hear someone approach the desk. One by one my coworkers trickle in. I breathe a silent sigh of relief every time it’s not Nora. I’m not worried she’ll publicly “out” me, but she saw a side of me this weekend no one else in the business has. No one but Porgeous, who’s surprisingly good at keeping his mouth shut when he wants to. Nora saw how different line-dancing Teddy is from bond-trading Theo, and she’s smart enough to recognize the huge disconnect there.
She’s ballsy enough to call me out on it, and I don’t have an explanation that doesn’t make me look like a complete jackass or a total sap.
But at the end of the day, I don’t owe Nora a thing. Least of all an explanation. I have to put my family first, and her and her adorable baseball hat and hot little legging things can go to hell.
Still. My heart stops beating when I hear her say, “Morning.”
“Morning, Nora,” Nicky says. “Have a good weekend?”
“It was decent, yeah. You?”
“Got some golf in, which was nice.”
Don’t look up. Do not look—
Shit, I look up, and there she is in all her gorgeous silk-blouse-and-lipstick glory. She’s wearing her hair all wavy and wild today, and all I can think about is who gave her the good, hard fuck this morning that made it look like that. Was it Aiden? What were they doing together on a Saturday afternoon? Why does it matter?
Bonds, bonds, think about bonds.
Nora’s brown eyes meet mine. Flick to my mouth. My heart blares back to life. There’s a softness to them that’s new and . . . frankly beautiful.
It’s terrifying.
My fingers tighten around my already-mangled mouse. I’m angry all of a sudden. Her eyes, the kindness—it’s infuriating. Something’s changed between us, and I hate it.
I hate being this way.
In my gut, I know this is a knee-jerk reaction to big feelings. I know I need to take a breath, maybe take a walk.
Instead I stare her down and say, “Hope you brought your A-game today, Frasier. What you got done last week isn’t going to cut it.”
Hurt flickers across her face. My chest contracts. Without a doubt, I take the prize for world’s biggest asshole. It’s not her fault she stumbled on the chink in my armor. But instead of facing that fact like an adult, I’m lashing out at her like a hangry toddler.
I have enough self-awareness to know I don’t do vulnerability well. I prefer not to do it at all. Being open to complete and utter destruction threatens my job. Both my jobs, the one at the bank and the one as head of my family.
It’s fucked up. I get it. But I’ve been in survival mode for so long that lashing out to protect what I’ve built has become second nature. A reflex, one I don’t know how to control.
For the first time, I find myself wanting to control it.
“If you want me to play ball, you have to play fair,” she replies stiffly before sitting in her chair. “Then I’ll get done whatever you need me to.”
I’m sorry.
“Prove it,” I say.
“Hold my beer,” she replies. “Or my coffee, in this case.”
“I’ll hold it,” Nicky says.
Porgeous, who by some miracle is in before seven, says, “You sure you can manage it with those little mitts of yours?”
Nicky holds up the hands in question. “I’ve never had any complaints.”
At the bar—she was drinking a beer. Draft. Looked like a Copper, my favorite. Not what I would’ve picked for her. She left it half-finished on the counter when she rushed Aiden out of there like the place was on fire. There’s nothing worse than not being able to finish a good beer.