Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75457 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75457 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Once we got that out of the way, we enjoyed our cheeseburgers and fries while my brother talked non-stop about his son.
Weber Morgan is the newest member of our family and has the rosiest cheeks. I can attest to that because Keats showed me at least thirty pictures of the little guy.
I snap the cover of my laptop shut when I hear the front door to the penthouse open.
I’ve been working since I got back from lunch. Since my project with Brighton Beck is wrapping up, and I haven’t been assigned anything new, my focus is on a personal project that I plan on pitching to Berk once I have it fleshed out. If he’s on board, that book has the potential to completely change the course of my career.
I don’t need prying eyes on it until I’m ready to share it with him.
“Sinclair!” Jameson’s deep voice echoes through the massive penthouse. “I’m home.”
I hold in a laugh because my dad used to call out those same two words when he arrived home from work every night when I was a kid. Often, my mom would still be at work, so I’d be the one who would race to greet him at the door.
I don’t put that much effort into welcoming Jameson home.
I slide from my bed to my feet. I’m still wearing the same jeans and T-shirt I had on when he saw me this morning.
“Sinclair!” he calls my name again. “Are you here?”
“I’m here,” I say loud enough that I know he’ll hear me. “I had a big lunch, so I’m skipping dinner tonight.”
“Like hell you are.” His voice is closer now. “I picked up some take-out. It’s that salad you used to polish off from the deli on Broadway.”
I close my eyes because that hits deep.
The last time I ate that salad was right before Jameson tossed his ‘let’s-get-fake-married’ plan at me two years ago. The salad didn’t sit well after he stormed away from me. I haven’t gone back to that deli since because the memory of that day has never faded.
“Sin?”
I pop open my eyes to see Jameson standing in the open doorway of my room. His tie is gone, and he’s unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. He somehow looks hotter than he did this morning.
“What?” I bark out.
He smirks. “Did I interrupt something?”
“No. Why?” I try to even my tone, but it’s an epic fail.
“You’re about to bite my head off.” He demonstrates that by tapping his upper and lower teeth together. “I caught you at a bad time, didn’t I?”
“No.” I motion for him to move out of my way. “Let’s eat so we can get down to business.”
“Works for me,” he says as I walk past him.
The scent of his cologne hits me, sending all of my senses into overdrive.
I don’t want my body to react to him the way it is. It can’t.
Jameson Sheppard is my enemy. Nothing he does, including smelling like sin and looking like every bad decision I want to make, will ever change that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Jameson
Sinclair picked at the salad I brought her. I, on the other hand, finished mine in record time.
Work was a bitch today, so there wasn’t time for nourishment. My brother made sure of that. He pulled me into three useless meetings before I yanked him into his office to find out what the fuck his problem was.
In true Holden fashion, he played the part of the calm, cool, and collected co-CEO and told me to get a grip. Then he lectured me on the price of doing business and how time factors into that.
He believes that every meeting I suffered through today was essential. He’s wrong. They were all a waste of time for every person who was present.
Once that fiasco was over, I was hit with an emergency that involved a lost shipment of our best-selling product.
That sucked up my entire afternoon until I was finally able to pinpoint the broken down truck carrying chocolate covered candies. It was stuck just off the interstate. Company supplied cell phones are a quick fix to avoiding another catastrophe like that, so I arranged for that to be implemented.
“How was work?” Sinclair asks me even though her gaze and attention are stuck on her phone’s screen.
It’s been that way since we sat down to eat.
I attempted to start the conversation by asking about her day, but she ignored me in favor of laughing at some meme on her phone.
I caught a glimpse of it when I stood up to grab a beer from the fridge. That six-pack was at the top of my list on the grocery order the other day. I knew I’d need it.
“Brutal,” I say honestly, expecting her to ignore my answer.
Her head pops up. “Why? What happened?”
I sum up my day from hell in one word. “Holden.”