Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Ronan smirks, squaring his shoulders as if preparing for a physical confrontation. “Guess you needed a different angle to see them.” There’s an edge to his voice as he delivers what seems like a taunt.
Henry’s jaw clenches.
Meanwhile, next to me, Abbi’s face flushes a bright red.
What on earth are they talking about?
“So, Sloane, what do you think of my new hotel?” Henry asks suddenly.
I hesitate, replaying my conversation with Gigi from earlier today. Peach pie or spittle, which do I choose? For Ronan’s sake, I go with the former, because something tells me spitting in Henry Wolf’s face during cocktail hour isn’t how I want to be remembered.
But I will not lie, and I sure as shit am not kissing anyone’s ass. “It’s everything I imagined it would be.” Right down to the arrogant owner.
Henry’s hard expression cracks as he bursts out with laughter that sounds genuine.
Abbi and Ronan share a wary look. This must not be the expected reaction.
Even I can’t keep confusion from skittering across my face.
Henry’s mirth ends on a heavy sigh, just as clicking heels approach from behind.
“You seem to be enjoying yourselves.” The blond who was staring me down earlier joins our little group, her voice a seductive purr. “Dinner is about to begin.”
“Belinda, have you met Ronan’s girlfriend?” Henry’s smile is smug and loaded.
I resist the urge to deny the label. Belinda. This is the general manager, Ronan’s immediate boss, who was also not a fan of my art project or of me.
“I have not yet, no,” she answers in a clipped tone, her eyes dragging over my dress in an assessing manner. “Ronan never mentioned a girlfriend, though Eleanor told me that he added an extra person last-minute.”
“This is Sloane Parker. She lives next door to the hotel.” Each word is enunciated in a calm, even tone.
“Next door.” She glares at Ronan. “Is this a joke?”
“No. I’m sure I mentioned her at our afternoon meeting today. You remember the one, right?” Ronan meets Belinda’s gaze unflinchingly.
Clearly, something happened in this meeting because she looks like a keg of gunpowder about to erupt.
“I insisted that Ronan bring Sloane tonight so we could meet her,” Abbi says in a rushed tone, reaching out to grab my free hand. “I can’t wait to get to know someone so important to one of my closest friends. Right, hon?” She peers up at her husband with an innocent smile.
How does she fake that so well?
“Oh, yeah. I’ve been dying for this moment.” There’s the perfect blend of dryness and mocking in Henry’s tone. “In fact, Belinda, can you please make sure Sloane and Ronan are seated next to me and Abbi?”
I stifle my groan.
Belinda’s painted red lips purse. “But we’ve put—”
“Move them.” The two words are delivered sharply and leave no opportunity for rebuttal.
She stiffens. “I’ll see to it right now.” With one last scathing glare for Ronan, Belinda storms away.
The pianist has wrapped up her performance, and servers in pressed uniforms are forming a line by the kitchen doors, signaling dinner. Guests take the hint, moving in to read the seating cards as ambient music comes to life over the restaurant speakers.
“After you, Abigail.” Henry steps back and gestures toward the head of one table before leading his wife away.
“I guess that could have been worse,” Ronan murmurs as soon as they’re out of earshot.
“You were right. This dinner is going to be so much fun,” I mock.
Ronan smooths his calloused hand over my bare shoulder. “Should we make a run for it?”
“No, it’s too late. You made your bed, and now you’re gonna lie in it.”
“As long as you’re there with me.”
“Well, good news, then, because …” I cast a hand dramatically toward the table, where Belinda is shuffling seating arrangement cards with a scowl.
Ronan steps closer, his hand cupping my nape. “The sooner Henry realizes you are in my life, the better.” My breath hitches as he leans down to kiss me tenderly.
“Now, do I need to confiscate your butter knife or will you behave?” he whispers against my lips.
I’m caught in a haze, this growing pull toward him—both physical and emotional—beginning to overshadow everything else. “I make no promises.”
His deep, dark chuckle invades my body. “That’s my girl.”
“We have paired wines with each course this evening, as you can see on the menu cards set in front of you,” the server who brought Abbi her plate earlier announces to our end of the table. “Each course has three options to choose from, and we will tailor your pour, unless you vehemently oppose.”
Six more servers are spread out in sections to cater to smaller groups, and a small army waits behind us, each carrying wine bottles at the ready. In total, there must be close to forty people here for dinner tonight and almost as many staff.