Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Mainline Logistics is a successful and large shipping corporation. The company has a little piece of pretty much every truck that leaves or goes through the greater New York City region. As the CEO, that would make Mr. Whelan powerful enough, but I swear sometimes it’s more than that.
His name opens doors. More doors than should be available to a shipping guy. Natalie said his family is connected, but that’s mostly a rumor. He’s got a bunch of brothers and from what I hear, they’re all rich and successful in a bunch of different businesses scattered all over the city. But it’s nothing more nefarious than lots of money flowing through Whelan bank accounts.
I find myself wobbling toward a small table in a very nice, quiet part of the restaurant. I slow, staring, and find Mr. Whelan is already waiting for me.
And for a second, I can’t breathe.
He’s not in his usual suit. I’ve never seen him without it before. Instead, he’s got on an expensive and understated charcoal cashmere sweater with a collared shirt underneath, the top button undone, showing a bit of skin at his throat. The sweater clings to his chest and arms like a glove, showing off his gorgeous musculature. A new watch glitters on his wrist, likely more expensive than most cars. He’s got on navy slacks, perfectly pressed, and brown Italian leather loafers with no socks. I stare at a sliver of ankle. Natalie would lose her shit for that small stretch of skin near his feet.
I’ve never seen him so sinfully casual before.
The way he looks at me in return makes my heart nearly stop dead. His gaze rakes down my body, lingering at my mouth, at my earrings, at my chest and my hips. His expression softens and that hint of hunger returns to his eyes, but it’s leashed now, like he’s keeping himself under control.
He sits forward slightly, intense but also inviting.
The hostess says something as I seat myself, but I can’t hear anything at all. She places a menu at my elbow before withdrawing.
There’s already a glass of wine waiting.
“I hope you don’t mind I took the liberty of ordering drinks,” he murmurs, his voice soft and melodious. I try to remember the last time he spoke to me without a sharp command and can’t come up with anything.
“Uh, thank you, Mr. Whelan.”
His lips tug upwards in the third smile I’ve ever seen from him.
It’s gorgeous and completely terrifying.
“Tonight, you may call me Declan.” He leans in, the smile getting bigger. “Or you may call me sir.”
Holy shit!
Is that a joke? Is he flirting? No, he’s not flirting; that was just normal professional colleague teasing. Nothing weird!
“Of course, Mr. Whelan, I mean, Declan, sir.”
He leans back, swirling his glass of wine, watching me carefully. The man exudes pure confidence and power. He sits like he could buy this place and have it emptied out in seconds. Like if he wanted to take me right here, right now, out in the open on this table, nobody would dare try to stop him.
It’s masculine and dangerous. I’ve never been the subject of this much of his attention before, and it terrifies me.
“Please, take a look at the menu. Get whatever you like. And if you aren’t sure, I’d be happy to choose for you.”
“Ah, no, thank you, I’ll take a look. Thank you, Mr.—” I clear my throat and drink some wine. “Declan.”
He nods coolly, his smile gone, and I hide behind the menu.
I’m sweating.
It’s terrible.
I’m flushed all over and my lips are tingling. What’s happening right now? He’s not acting like we’re at a work meeting.
He wants me to use his first name? He’s giving me freedom to pick whatever I want from a menu where the cheapest item is like a hundred bucks?
None of this makes sense.
I can’t read any of the dishes. I peer at him, and he’s sipping his wine and studying me intensely. I hide again, clenching my jaw to keep my teeth from rattling.
“You live at home with your aunt, don’t you?” he asks suddenly. “How’s that been?”
I nearly jump out of my chair.
He’s never, not a single time, asked about my personal life before.
“Aunt Sheila’s great,” I say, lowering the menu. This is a normal conversation. I’ve done this a thousand times. I know how to talk to people. Usually, I’m outgoing and charming. I like chatting! Natalie says sometimes I’m annoying and too sunny! But Mr. Whelan’s got me all rattled and off my game. “My parents died when I was twelve, and she took me in. I didn’t even know she existed before that.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your parents,” he murmurs without much feeling. “Your aunt sounds like a good woman.”
“She’s the best. I have no idea where I’d be without her. I went to NYU and saved money by staying at home, and I guess I just never moved out. I have this dream—” I stop myself. I’m going way past the limits of his question, and I know Mr. Whelan likes it when I’m concise and to the point.