Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 119852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Instead, I’m quick to answer, “Me too.”
He grunts in appreciation right as the waitress comes up. Shifting topics, we order our meals and begin discussing this afternoon’s sports medicine check-ins.
It’s not until we’re halfway through our steaks and deep in discussion about the season that our attention is drawn by the hostess leading a group to the table beside us. I glance up, surprised to see Kayla and two guys in business suits. She freezes, her eyes widening as she sees me, then Riggs.
I’m on the verge of greeting her… until I see the tiniest shake of her head. Not right now.
I drag my eyes from Kayla to Riggs. His jaw is clenched, his eyes narrowed and locked on Kayla. He saw the head shake too and didn’t like it any more than I did.
Fuck.
As she sits down with the other guys, I realize this must be her business dinner. What are the chances that, of all the restaurants in town, we’d end up at the same place, sitting at neighboring tables?
“Hey now! Maddox Brooks! Fancy seeing you here,” the younger of the two guys says, leaning toward our table with a veneered grin and way too much familiarity. He looks like the kind of guy who thinks his Ivy League education and tailored suit mean he’s better than everyone else. “You gonna have a better season this year?”
He laughs like the Devils not winning the Cup last year is somehow amusing, and also, a personal failure on my part.
Gritting my teeth, I give him a chin lift of acknowledgement and make a show of returning my attention to my steak. The meal continues, seemingly normal, but I feel Kayla’s eyes on me the whole time. At no point does she make a move to introduce us or even acknowledge us.
Riggs drops his fork to his plate with a small clatter, clearly not happy about the situation either. “Let’s get out of here.”
I stare him down, silently telling him, we are not leaving. I am not retreating because some asshole said some rude shit about the Devils, nor because Kayla is keeping her business and our pleasure separate.
He doesn’t like it, but after a long two seconds, he picks up his glass, taking a long, slow swallow of his beer. We eat in silence from that point on, our forks and knives the only sound at our table. Not because we’re angry, though irritated would be fairly accurate, but because we’re listening to Kayla’s conversation.
“I don’t know much about hockey. I prefer to keep things more business-oriented,” she tells Mr. Ivy League, her tone formal and professional as she emphasizes the last bit, like she’s explaining to us why she’s acting like she doesn’t know us.
Understood. Do your boss thing.
“Brent played in high school. Was quite the athlete, but had to give it up and buckle down in college. Being fraternity president was more important than brawls on the ice. But there was a time, right, Son?” The older guy guffaws.
Putting pieces together, I realize Mr. Ivy League is Brent, the guy Kayla called a slimy, chauvinistic asshole. That makes the old guy his father, David Jessup. Kayla told us a little about this deal, though actually comprehending it is way outside my realm of experience. The gist as I understand is, it’s a company with something Kayla wants.
“Fraternity president? That’s quite the highlight on your resume, isn’t it? I think one of my interns was president of his fraternity too. Alpha-Alpha, something or other,” Kayla says, effectively dismissing the not-humble brag as something even her intern can accomplish.
Brent bristles but hides it behind what he probably thinks is a polite smile. “Yes, college was a while ago. I’ve been banging out contracts for years now.” His attempt at sounding cutthroat is weak at best, laughable at worst. The only thing this guy bangs out is scotch, given he sat down with one from the bar. “Not that you’d know anything about that. You’re one of the younger Harringtons, right? You must be what… twenty-five at most?” Any internet search would tell this guy that she’s twenty-nine and has done more in her short life that he ever will, personally and professionally.
Kayla levels him with a glare. “Old enough to know when someone’s being condescending.”
Brent has the good sense to at least seem apologetic. “No, I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, holding his hands in surrender with a jovial chuckle. “Just that you’re doing surprisingly well for yourself. Locking in a relationship with a company like Jessup Enterprises looks good for you.” If he pats himself on the back any harder, he’ll probably choke. “Especially considering how young you are. It’s a compliment.”
“Do we need to do this again?” Kayla says frostily. “You didn’t mean it kindly, and commentary on my age is inappropriate and unwelcome.”