Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 330(@200wpm)___ 264(@250wpm)___ 220(@300wpm)
Nothing left to do but pull myself together, grab that boring cereal, and start working.
* * *
My phone rings.
I frown at it. Given the time, I’ve clearly lost myself in design again, to the tune of several hours. More importantly, the caller ID states “Mr. Boss.”
“Hello?” I say, but what I really mean is: “This had better be important.”
“Okay, you win,” Tierre says in that voice he uses when he wants to sound compassionate, though it really comes across as condescending.
“Huh?”
“Yes, yes. I can be merciful,” Tierre continues in that same tone. “If you want it back so bad, you can have it.”
I glare at the phone. “Is this a butt dial?”
“Butt…” Tierre enunciates the word like he’s savoring it. “What are you talking about?”
“Right back at you,” I snap. “And hurry, I’m kind of busy.”
He sucks in a breath. “How dare you? I call you to offer your job back, and you’re being rude to me?”
“Ah. I get it now. How many assistants have quit on you so far?”
“My generous offer is withdrawn,” he says but, tellingly, doesn’t hang up. “You remain fired.”
“Got it. I guess it works out because I’m out of the assistant business now, anyway.”
With that, I hang up before I can say something I might later regret.
Realizing my heart is racing, I take a few calming breaths.
Did I just make a mistake?
No. I love designing, and I didn’t like ninety percent of the menial tasks I had to do for Tierre.
In hindsight, I should’ve quit a year ago. Maybe even earlier.
A text from Ashton arrives in that moment, asking where and when we’re meeting. I reply, set an alarm, gobble down leftover tacos, and dive back into work.
* * *
The Global Grub Grotto is a restaurant that claims to specialize in delicacies from around the world, but in reality, it’s known as the place where you can get the weirdest dishes in the city. The owner, Chef Lars, claims he tailors to the so-called adventurous eaters like my brother, but if you ask me, someone has simply watched Fear Factor one too many times.
As soon as I walk in, I smell something odd and unappetizing—with the most generous interpretation being that the restaurant has recently used a new and very strong cleaning product.
No. Must not think in that direction. It’s Cameron’s birthday, and the last thing I want to do is yuck his yum.
“Are you here for the private event?” asks the hostess.
“Yes. Birthday.” As if to prove it, I display my wrapped gift—a phone case I personally created for him from denim, canvas, and quilted cotton.
“And which of the menus are you going to be ordering from?” she asks. “Basic or adventurous?”
I sigh. “Basic, please.”
She hands me the menu in question with a slight wrinkle of her nose. “Right this way.”
She leads me past a display of desserts that are made to look like regular, everyday objects and into a big room with tables filled with people—some very familiar to me, like Mom and Dad, and some I’ve only seen at Cameron’s other birthdays.
“Ken-doll!” my father shouts. “Come, we saved you a seat.”
Shit. My brother is sitting with them also, which means I can’t spare Ashton from a full-on “meet the parents” experience.
Forcing a smile to my lips, I kiss everyone and wish Cameron a happy birthday before handing him his gift.
“Thanks, sis.” He unwraps the case, and everyone oohs and aahs as my brother ceremoniously takes out his phone and replaces his generic case with my creation.
“What do you think?” Dad asks him.
“Love it,” Cameron says. Turning my way, he kisses my cheek. “Thanks again.”
“So…” Mom looks around. “Where is your boyfriend?”
I grab a glass of water and take a big swig. “For the love of Manolo Blahniks, please, pretty please, don’t call him that when he shows up. He’s not my boyfriend and never will be. He’s only here because Cameron wanted to talk shop with him today. That’s all. He’s even bringing a co-worker—who, before you ask, also isn’t my boyfriend.”
“The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” Mom says.
Cameron looks at the entrance. “Is that him?”
I turn. Tall, blond, ridiculously handsome, and impeccably dressed—check, check, check, and check. “Yeah,” I manage to say in a casual tone, as though my heart isn’t suddenly dancing a jig in my chest.
“And who is that with him?” my brother asks, his voice sounding odd. “Is it his actual girlfriend?”
Great question because the beautiful blonde who walks in with Ashton is not acting like an employee at all. For starters, she punches Ashton’s shoulder and rolls her eyes at something he says. Ashton then offers her his arm, and she places her slender hand through the crook of his elbow before they walk inside.
Finally—and most telling of all—there’s something protective about the way he stares down any man who goggles at his… whoever she is.