Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
I can’t tell if she’s teasing me, or flirting with me. Either way, I like it.
She takes a sip of wine and looks away, biting her bottom lip.
Definitely flirting.
Red, sexy dress. Red lips. High heels.
Flirting.
There are papers still on the table, and I motion to them. “Maybe we should clear these out of the way so nothing gets spilled on them.”
“Oh. Good idea.”
We make quick work of cleaning them up, sliding everything into Peyton’s black leather portfolio. It’s smart and expensive, and looks great with her entire look tonight. Classy, sexy, and professional.
“I’m curious. Why New York? Why not somewhere else for the company, like . . . Colorado or even Chicago, where they have kettles and moraines? I know you initially said it was because of your parents living in Buffalo, but you could have changed your mind by now.”
It’s a good question, one almost everyone asks. Especially the journalists who’ve done stories on me in the past. Yet, coming from Peyton, I’m more relaxed to talk about it. She actually wants to know . . . me. That was something so surprising about the emails we sent each other. She seems to want to know more. Even now that I know who LSY is. It’s no longer a mysterious game, but it’s . . . friendship? “It’s New York City. This is where Wall Street is, and big business—and that’s what I always wanted my business to be. Big. Publicly traded. I didn’t think I could do that anywhere else.”
“I see. And now?”
“Now I know I could have.” But now it’s too late.
I’m here. The business is here.
The only thing I can do is open more branches in more rural locations—like Colorado Springs, or Vermont. Or Washington State.
Someday it will happen—just not right now.
And right now, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I want to talk about her.
“What made you decide to start your own brand?”
She sits back in her seat mimicking my pose. “Oh. Brand . . . I like the sound of that. A lot.” A drink of her water hits her lips. “Don’t get me wrong, I loved working for you—probably a little too much. But I was great at what I did, and honestly, no one wanted to promote me because of that. If that makes sense.”
Yeah, it makes sense. You get someone good and you want to keep them right where they are.
Sucks that she quit though, when I could have used her somewhere else.
“I do miss seeing you around the office.” Her words surprise me, and I try not to show it.
“What are you talking about? We barely saw each other.”
“Oh, I saw you plenty.” Peyton chuckles knowingly. “You just didn’t notice.”
“When?” I hardly went down to the lower floors.
“I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m friends with Lauren. She and I did lunch a lot, and I’d grab her, and see you. Always so serious.” She pulls a grumpy face. “Always at your desk.”
“I never saw you.” How is that even possible when she’s all I can think about now? When she’s all I seem to see?
“No. Your head was always down.”
It’s not down right now. It’s up, and my eyes are staring straight at her. And under the glowing lights of this dim restaurant, she’s really fucking pretty.
If I’m being honest with myself, I’m really fucking disappointed she won’t be in the office on Monday, because the first thing I would do is raise my head and stare at her when she came to collect my assistant for lunch.
Maybe even throw her a flirty wink.
Would I?
“You’re doing it again,” she teases.
“Doing what?”
“You’re lost in thought.”
Why the hell do I keep doing that? It’s so unlike me. It’s unnerving and rattling me just a little. I like being in control of my thoughts and actions, and Peyton is making me . . .
“Shit, sorry.”
“When was the last time you got laid?” Her question is random, and out of the blue, inappropriate, and has me almost choking on my own saliva. Peyton is being fucking serious and looks like she really wants to know.
When I part my lips, I almost say something asinine, like Pardon me? or I beg your pardon? but I bite my tongue and manage not to blush.
“I’m not sure.”
She doesn’t believe me; it’s written all over her pretty face. “You’re not sure? How can you not be sure? I thought men knew all the little details about sex.”
It’s not a little detail, it’s an embarrassing fact, and I’m not about to share it with her.
I deflect.
“Why do you even care?”
One of those expertly manicured brows rises. “Oh, you know why I care.”
I do.
She wants to bang me.
And I haven’t had sex with anyone in . . . months. How many months, I have no idea—Hunter would probably know if I asked him. That fucker knows all my personal business, and remembers most of it, too. He’s the most annoying factotum I’ve ever met in my damn life.