Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“The prospect’s not that unappealing, is it?” Amusement twinkles in his not-wholly-unattractive blue eyes. Pity green is more my thing these days.
“It’s this pineapple. It’s really sour,” I say around the half-masticated mush. While I consider spitting it into my napkin—because I’m classy like that—I swallow it down instead. Urgh. I give in to a shiver because that was really unpleasant.
“Dinner?” he prompts, his blue eyes still twinkling.
“On me?” I respond eventually.
“If you insist.”
“No!” I say. Or laugh. “What I meant is, do you really think that’s a winner, asking me to buy you dinner?”
“Equal opportunities and all that. Plus, you’ve gotta earn more than I do.”
Can’t say that makes me feel bad, even if Arthur is a chancer. And kind of cute with it. Not that it means anything.
“Well.” I pause, searching for a kinder word than no, when, through the glass, I notice the arrival of the senior execs in the outer office. Or as they call them here, the big nobs. “Earnings aside,” I say as the lift dings. “I don’t . . .” My words trail off as I track Nigel, the CFO, ushering a group through the office.
“Earnings aside?”
“Hm?” But my attention is elsewhere, Martine’s words echoing in my head. “Rich as Croesus and as hot as fuck.” Boy, she wasn’t kidding.
Rich men seem to have an aura, a presence. It’s more than just the cut of their suits or the $500 weekly hair trims. It’s something as intangible as air but just as real, and I sense it in the room the moment they step over the glass-walled threshold.
Hottie number one is tall, dark, handsome, and kind of imperious looking.
Hottie number two is tall, fair, and handsome, with an air of Californian perfection.
Hottie number three, with his head bent over his phone, is tall, dark, and—
Fuck. My stomach plummets, and it has nothing to do with the rancid fruit as I roll my lips together, like the start of his name. Matt. I’m thankful when no sound comes out.
I can’t make sense of this, whatever this is. Why would he be here? In London—in this office? Short of this man being Matt’s doppelgänger.
“Ladies and gents, if I could have your attention.”
As Nigel speaks, Arthur touches my elbow as though to say we should take our seats. But my mouth isn’t the only thing that isn’t working, my feet having somehow turned to Jell-O.
Matt isn’t in finance. He doesn’t work for a private equity company in the heart of London, because that would mean—
“While I’m sure there’s no need for an introduction . . .” Nigel’s mouth continues to work as he casts his gaze over the room, a pinch in his brow evident as it bumps over me. “. . . Oliver Deubel, Fin DeWitt, and Matías Romero . . .”
There. Matías. Not the same name. Except . . . Half Spanish, half Irish.
From the other side of the room, the man’s eyes lift from his phone as, like a counterweight, his hand lowers. Seconds and milliseconds seem to slow as he blinks, his lashes long and thick. Then the inevitable. Our eyes meet, his widening with disbelief. Lips lifting with warmth and recognition.
Meanwhile, I feel like I’ve been plunged into an icy-cold pool. I press my hand to my mouth as the power of speech and motion comes back to me in a rush. Which is just as well, as my stomach revolts and I become aware that I’m almost certainly about to vomit.
Chapter 15
Ryan
It’s not a ploy, cunning or otherwise, to avoid a scene, as the soles of my shoes feel suddenly slick against the industrial carpeting. Palm pressed to my mouth, I move toward the door while my brain belatedly lodges the minutiae of Matt’s reaction.
Confusion. Doubt. The jolt of his body like he’d stuck a fork in a toaster. Doubt. Then maybe delight?
At the door, I yank on the chrome handle that’s almost as tall as me, the stupidly heavy glass door too slow to open for my liking. I sprint from the meeting room, knowing I’m going to be so pissed. I’ll have an awful lot of words to say, and some of them very unpleasant, but right now, I have more pressing matters to deal with.
“Ryan?”
I register Martine’s frown, but don’t stop. I will not demean myself—I will not barf in an office made of glass.
I make it to the bathroom not a moment too soon and seem to be in the stall for the longest time, given the meager contents of my stomach.
“You okay in here?”
The door tentatively opens, Martine appearing around the edge of it.
“All over but the dry heaving.” I swipe toilet paper from the dispenser and pat my sweaty head, feeling all kinds of sorry for myself. “That was . . .” It couldn’t have been him. No way. Vomiting and hallucinating. What vile ailment are those symptoms of?