Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 618(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 412(@300wpm)
“Sorry.” I tuck a few stray hairs into my high-swept ponytail. “What?”
“The rooftop party Bennett’s throwing.” Rip looks like he will whine if I say I’ve changed my mind about attending. “We are still going, right?”
“Of course.” I pick up my bag and check my phone. “Baker’s downstairs waiting.”
“Should I pick you up here tonight?” Rip frowns, maybe starting to sense me pulling away. About damn time. I’ve been about as subtle as a hooker in heels.
“No, I’m not sure how my day’s going. I’ll probably dress at the office.” I curve my lips just so. “Let’s meet at the party.”
I’m out the door and at the elevator before he can protest anymore. The black Infiniti QX80 idles in front of my apartment building, Baker, my father’s driver, waiting to open the back door for me. I peck his cheek just to see his face redden and his stern mouth yield a tiny smile.
Baker’s been driving my father all over this city for twenty years. If Walsh were ever unable to run Bennett, Baker probably knows just as much as my father and could step in without a hitch. He’s overheard and forgotten more about Bennett Enterprises than most of its executives will ever know.
“Thanks for the ride, Baker.” I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. “I suppose Daddy’s been at the office for hours already.”
“He went in rather late this morning, Miss B. Not until eight.”
Over the years, Martin Bennett and my father set a high bar for everyone else, always at their desks and decimating other companies by six most mornings, seven on slack days. I know for a fact Walsh arrives even earlier than that many mornings.
We fall into a comfortable silence, and I look over my notes for the meeting ahead. Soon we’re in front of the Bennett building, and Baker is opening the back door for me to exit.
“Will you need a ride to the party tonight?” Baker takes my hand to help me down to the sidewalk. “Or will Mr. Ripley be taking you?”
“Neither, actually. I’ll make my own way.”
“You often do, Miss B.” His face and tone relax. “May I ask if you and Mr. Ripley are still…together?”
He’s earned these personal questions. When I was growing up, my father had time only for Bennett Enterprises, and my mother thrived at the epicenter of New York City’s social scene. Sometimes Baker ended up being the closest thing to an actual parent I had, answering awkward adolescent questions and making sure I made it home from rowing practice each afternoon.
“We’re still together for now.” I glance up the bustling block before looking back to Baker’s deliberately stoic features. “You don’t like him very much, do you? Rip, I mean.”
“He’s not for me to like or not like, Miss B.” He crinkles only the corners of his eyes. “He does have a great arm.”
I tease him with a wicked smile.
“It’s not exactly his arm I’m interested in, Baker.”
Nothing like seeing a grown man blush, and Baker makes it fun to be outrageous.
“Why, I think you’re blushing, Baker.”
“One day I’ll figure out how to make you blush again, Miss B.”
“Me blushing would be my face’s idea of sarcasm.” I straighten my blazer and glance at my watch. “I need to get on in. Thanks again for the ride.”
The elevators at this time of morning take forever, so when I see a set of doors open, I rush across the lobby, stilettos and all, my runway experience coming in handy.
“Hold the elevator!” I call out with little hope that someone actually will.
A hand presses the door back, and I slip in, grateful words already spilling out of my mouth.
“Thank you so m—”
A set of dark chocolate eyes smile at me from under a spill of ginger-colored hair.
“You were saying?” Trevor Bishop stands there, smelling delicious and looking mouth-watering in a gray three-piece suit. I love men in pink, and his bold choice of a pink silk shirt beneath his vest, no tie, exposing the tanned strength of his neck gets my vote.
“Thank you,” I finish, noticing for the first time that the elevator is crowded with other people, including Harold Smith and Karma Sutton, Walsh’s assistant. “Good morning, Mr. Smith, Karma.”
“Good morning, Miss Baston,” Karma says, British accent crisp. “I meant to tell you I saw you walk Chanel in London. You were flawless.”
At her words, I sense interest pique around me as people realize it’s not their imagination, but they do actually know me from a billboard or grocery store magazine. I’ll be glad when the elevator car empties. I’m going to the top, so it should soon.
“Thanks, Karma.” I fix my eyes on the climbing numbers illuminated above our heads.
“When is your next show?”
“Um, I don’t have a show booked.” I give her a smile, starting to care less if anyone else is listening. “I’ve been walking runways since I was eighteen years old. I think I’ll leave it to the youngsters from now on. Maybe it’s time to retire.”