Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“Anyway,” McGee went on before I could think about it too deeply, “if there’s ice, we’re pulling over. She’ll just have to get a room at an airport hotel. Assuming she makes it here at all, that is. My mom says there’s bad weather back in New York, too.” He sounded way too cheerful about this fact. “I sure wouldn’t wanna be hanging out on a dinky aircraft at twenty thousand feet while it’s snow—”
“McGee,” I said sharply, noticing the way Thatcher’s jaw flexed.
“Ah, shit.” McGee winced and ran one large hand over his jaw. “Sorry, boss. I didn’t think.”
“It’s fine,” Thatcher said. “Really.”
But I wasn’t feeling quite so forgiving. I lifted my chin and glared at McGee. “Those sagging jowls of yours aren’t the only signs of your advanced age, are they?”
McGee sighed. “Yeah, yeah. I deserved that one.” He gulped down the last of his coffee. “Anyone need to step outside while we’re here? You sure? Okay, then.” He rinsed his mug, set it in the dish drainer, and stretched his muscular arms to the ceiling. “Gimme five, and then we’re back on the road.”
McGee headed for the hall bathroom, and an awkward silence descended over the table. Thatcher’s eyes lifted from his screen to meet mine, and a small smile tilted the edges of his lips. “You don’t need to defend me, Reagan—”
My face went hot. “I wasn’t defending you, per se—”
“—but I appreciate it nonetheless,” he finished.
Oh. The warmth in his voice had little flocks of rebellious butterflies flinging themselves between my stomach and chest, and I couldn’t think how to answer. Everything with Thatcher felt… different. None of my usual responses ever seemed to apply.
I grabbed my tablet and pulled it in front of me, hoping there were a few critical emails that required my attention as well… or that I could manage to pretend there were long enough for Thatcher to stop looking at me.
Unfortunately, the only important message was so unexpected my stomach dropped, taking all the happy butterflies with it.
I blew out a breath. “Wow. So, change of plans, I guess. Layla’s assistant booked me a flight to New York tomorrow afternoon.”
McGee came out of the bathroom just in time to overhear. “I told you!” He pointed at Thatcher. “Didn’t I call it, boss? The creepy Mrs. Pennington wannabe doesn’t wanna share you.”
Thatcher flashed McGee a glare. “And I told you, it’s nothing like that. Layla’s a trusted employee, and when she’s on this bus, you’ll treat her with respect. Understand?” But when he turned his gaze to me, it was clear McGee wasn’t the only one he was annoyed with. “Layla’s been in charge of PennCo for a long time, and I allow her to handle most matters at her discretion. I told her yesterday that you were staying on the tour, and apparently, she assumed it was a suggestion. It was not. Please email Layla’s assistant and explain the situation to her. Tell her to cancel your reservation. That’s a direct order from me.”
“Yes, sir,” I said while McGee climbed back into the driver’s seat.
God, it was hot when Thatcher was commanding, even when it wasn’t me he was bossing around. My fingers flew over the tablet screen as I responded to Alena’s email, and while I tried not to sound too smug as I relayed Thatcher’s command, I probably failed.
Once it was sent, Thatcher seemed preoccupied with his ever-present emails, so I went back to my inbox to handle a few less-urgent emails of my own. I got a revised list of talking points from the PR team, sent the marketing folks notes on some posts they’d drafted, and chatted with the event organizers in Madison, who were very eager to see us later in the trip.
What I did not do was pull Thatcher away from his work and drag him back to the bedroom to lick every inch of his body. I was still determined to show that I could be professional… though admittedly, I’d allowed that to fall much further down my priority list in the last twelve hours than I should have.
Thatcher had made it clear that this thing between us was temporary, so part of me wanted nothing more than to enjoy it while it lasted. After all, I’d have all the time and energy in the world to prioritize work once the tour was over because Thatcher would probably—god, the idea turned my stomach—go back to ignoring my existence. And for right now, I realized, I was happier than I’d been in a really long time.
My phone clattered across the table, and both Thatcher and I glanced over to see my mother’s name and picture appear.
I sighed. “Hello, Mother.” I stood and stretched, moving back toward the bedroom so I wouldn’t disturb Thatcher.
“Reagan, darling, I’m so pleased!”