Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“Damn straight,” he grumbles. “If I’d known there were that many, I would have skipped the stair climber this morning. The holidays are for phoning it in at the gym. I only like to do as much exercise as is strictly necessary to keep the pudding and wine from going to my waist.”
I grin. “Well, you’re doing an excellent job so far. Your abs looked delicious in the shower this morning.”
He makes a growling sound low in his throat as he sways closer. “Stop. Don’t talk about it, or I’ll have to ravage you in a broom closet before the meeting. Those leggings you wore on the treadmill should be illegal. And the way your bottom jiggles when you run…” He shudders. “Christ. I nearly dropped a barbell on my throat.”
I arch a brow. “In the immortal words of Beyonce, I don’t think you were ready for that jelly.”
His arm sneaks around my waist. “No, I most certainly was not. But I will be next time, I promise. I’ll arrange to get on the machine behind you and think wicked thoughts the entire time.”
I fight a giggle, gently pushing him away as the boardroom entrance—and the prim-looking receptionist seated outside—come into view.
“You’ve got this,” Oliver repeats, giving my elbow a squeeze, his hand warm and reassuring through the cashmere. “Remember, they’re already fans, or they wouldn’t have asked you to fly all the way across the ocean to pitch. They want what you’re selling.”
“Right.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “They want my Dickensian-meets-modern-sustainability with a top note of lush fairytale party planning genius.”
“Exactly! Damn, listen to how inspired that sounds. How could they resist?” He turns to face me a few feet from the desk, and honestly, it should be illegal for anyone to look this good at nine in the morning. His charcoal suit makes his eyes swirl like blue-gray storm clouds, and his hair is defying the laws of physics with a mix of floppiness and structure that proves fifty-pound hair product really is worth the splurge if you can afford it.
He gazes deep into my eyes, into my soul, before whispering, “Are you ready for your pre-meeting cheerleading session?”
I nod, shaking my arms loosely at my sides. “Yes, please.”
“You are Emily Bloody Darling, ferociously prepared, adorably feisty American, with fantastic ideas and crackerjack execution, and you are about to slay that meeting to absolute death.”
“To absolute death,” I echo. “With my thirty-seven PowerPoint slides and sexily embedded video montages.”
“Hell yes, you beastly little organization freak,” he agrees, making me cover my mouth to suppress a laugh. “There will be no survivors. How could there be?”
“Get out of here,” I whisper, waving him off. “Before you give me the hiccups. I always get the hiccups when I laugh when I’m nervous.”
“All right, good luck.” He kisses me, soft and quick on the cheek, but it still makes my knees wobblier than the stairs. “Go, dazzle them with your brilliance. Then text me when you’re on your way to the café, and I’ll have a second coffee waiting when you arrive.”
“You really are the best,” I say, meaning it.
He winks as he turns to go. “Remember that when I’m three sheets to the wind and humping your leg on the dance floor tonight.”
I wink back. “Oh, I will. I’m looking forward to it.”
Then he’s gone, striding back down the hall toward the stairs with that relaxed confidence that makes every woman we pass on the street stop to stare.
Which is fine.
They can stare all they want, but that gorgeous man is coming home with me.
With a private, slightly smug smile that feels good, if I do say so myself, I square my shoulders, check in with the receptionist to ensure I’m clear to go in a few minutes early, and push through the heavy doors.
Inside, the boardroom is mahogany and history, a monument to Timeless Business Decisions. The conference table could double as a small skating rink, and the view of London through the floor-to-ceiling windows makes me dizzy.
Or maybe it’s the ring of very posh and important people who pause sipping their tea to look up at me as I step inside that has my head spinning a little.
Ignoring the spike of anxiety dumping into my blood, I force my warmest smile. “Good morning, everyone, Happy Christmas.”
“Good morning! And Happy Christmas to you, Ms. Darling!” It’s Christoph, my main point of contact, looking even more luxuriously gay in person than he does on his social media. He rises from the closest chair, his brown eyes warm behind designer glasses that match his three-piece suit. “So lovely to finally meet in person.”
“Hello, Cristoph. Likewise,” I say, clasping his extended palm.
His handshake is firm, but in a comforting way, and I already feel more at ease as he turns to introduce me to the rest of the table, including his boss, James, the CEO of event coordination, two executive assistants here to take notes for their bosses, and a woman from the budget department.