Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
The guys chuckle. “We can tell.”
Seth suggests, “You should go see her. Do the whole surprise thing. Girls love that.”
It’s my turn to chuckle. “Wren’s not like your wife, man. She’d bitch me out for interrupting her work. Work she’s doing for us, remember?” But even as I say no, I’m considering it. I’d get to see her, check how things are going on the contract, and show Oliver that I’m around, even when I’m not around. The idea has merit.
“Take food when you go,” Roscoe advises wisely. “Caffeine, chocolate, and cock. The three c’s. You can’t go wrong with that combo.”
Or maybe not so wisely, but he does have a point. I’m sure Wren hasn’t been taking care of herself the last few days. She’s driven and focused, which means things like food and sleep fall by the wayside, especially with something this important. And that’s where I come in.
“Hey, Charlene,” I call out as she shuffles past us, staying busy with the weekday crowd. When she pauses, I ask, “Can I get those fries to go? And add a bowl of chili?”
“Sure thing, honey-baby. You want ’em disco-style?” she asks, referring to the smothered mess that somehow became known as disco fries. When I shake my head, she pops her gum and nods. “Okay. Gimme two shakes and I’ll get that boxed up for you.”
She winks and is gone in an instant, and the guys lose interest in my love life for the moment, returning to chatting about jobs and organizing their trip into Newport tomorrow.
When Charlene comes back a few minutes later with a brown bag, she says, “Gotchu all set with a spoon if you wanna eat the chili, and a tray of fries if you wanna pour the chili on top. I put a little cup of the sprinkle cheese and snuck you a little bit of the queso too.” She places a finger in front of her lips like anyone gives a shit that she gave me some queso on the down low.
Trading the bag for a twenty, I tell her thank you.
The guys cheer as I head out to see Wren, “go get her, man!” and “good luck!” coming at me from all sides. And just as importantly, a reminder that they’re all counting on her to get this contract on the books so we can get back to work.
I throw them a two-fingered wave and head out on my mission.
The drive over is quick, and I head inside without pausing to reconsider the intelligence of this action. Joanne’s long gone, so I walk down the hall toward Wren’s office, but hear her laughter coming from the conference room.
I freeze, eavesdropping without even choosing to do so.
“Oh my gosh, you’re the worst,” she says, laughing again.
“You love it and you know it,” Oliver answers, sex in his voice.
My nerve endings alight with jealousy, making my whole body hot. I shouldn’t have come. I should’ve trusted my first instincts and stayed away to let Wren work. I can see that now. Because I’m standing in the hallway like a chump, holding food and worrying about a woman who’s ten levels above me and doesn’t need a damn thing from a man like me.
“Stop it,” Wren says in a high-pitched voice. Maybe later I’ll hear something else in that tone, but right now, it sounds like fear.
I don’t think. I bust through the door, commanding forcefully, “Get the fuck away from her!”
Wren and Oliver look up in surprise . . . from where they’re sitting side by side at the conference room table, completely professional and not at all in danger of crossing any boundaries.
“Jesse!” Wren hollers, her hand to her chest in surprise. “What the hell?”
For his part, Oliver grins like I’m a complete dumbass. Which I am. But that doesn’t make me any less pissed about it.
“Sorry, I heard you scream ‘stop it’ and thought the worst,” I admit.
“I would never,” Oliver snaps, offended by my implied accusation.
I glare at him, fairly sure he would. Maybe not assault someone—that’s a special type of asshole—but a little pressure here, a bit of fake charm there? Yeah, he’s that type. “Wasn’t willing to take that chance with Wren,” I answer hotly.
“You’d think if you were that worried, you would’ve stopped by last night or the night before that,” he speculates. “I don’t think it was concern for Wren that had you barging in like some out-of-control, raging bull, but rather concern for yourself. Your jealousy got the best of you and made you think I was charming the pants off your girl, literally or metaphorically.”
He makes it sound like I’m a juvenile, irrational child, but he pulls at his collar, and I note that despite his argument to the contrary, he’s lost his tie, his top two buttons are undone, and he’s rolled up his sleeves to reveal muscled forearms. It could be a bit of relaxation after long hours of working on a contract, or it could be getting comfy to break down Wren’s typically well-honed defenses.