Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 113584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 454(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Unfortunately, Leighton follows me in. I’ve had more than my fair share of him today already. He’s not done gloating. “Anything interesting to share?” he asks.
“No.”
He drops into the chair opposite my desk, getting comfortable.
“Is there anything else?” Fuck, I hate him.
“Maybe we should have that lunch sometime.”
“What, so you can refer some of Kimpton’s friends?”
His smile falters. “You have to have a certain connection with your clients, don’t you? Kimpton’s not my cup of tea, so I decided against taking him on.”
I cough over my coffee.
“I could share some insights,” he goes on. “You could share yours. It could be”—he waggles a brow—“productive.”
Is he for real? He appals me. “I’m not sure your insights are worth the price I would have to pay.” Like sleeping with you, you slimebag. I vomit in my own mouth as I flash a sarcastic smile, and Leighton chuckles as he stands and fixes his jacket.
“My insights are gold, and I’m offering you a front-row seat to a Leighton Steers seminar.” Off he trots to the door. “I’ll even share how I nabbed a meeting with the owner of Arlington Hall.”
Another choke. What the hell? “The owner of Arlington Hall?”
“Yeah, you remember him?” Pound signs ping into Leighton’s eyes when he backs out. “At the convention.”
“Yeah, I remember him.”
“Didn’t I tell you I’d get him in my client bank?” The door closes, and I stare at it, my lagging brain trying to catch up.
“Shit,” I hiss, dialling Jude and standing, furious. “Are you having a meeting with Leighton Steers?” I ask abruptly when the call connects.
“Ummm . . . yeah?” He definitely sounds guarded.
“Jude!”
“What?”
I sit down and stand back up again, starting to walk circles around my office. “Why are you meeting him?”
“Ummm . . .”
“Um, um, um,” I snap. “Cancel it.”
“No.”
My nostrils flare. I know exactly what he’s going to do. So much for loving him more for taking my word and accepting it. “Do not interfere with my career, Jude. That’s a hard no for me.”
“I’m not interfering with your career. I’m building up the hopes of some little rat who’s hitting on my girlfriend so I can dash them and send him on his way with a polite warning.”
“Polite?”
“Depends how I feel after the meeting.”
Or if he’s taken his pills. I slam my mouth shut before I can let those words tumble out. “Jude, I beg you,” I whisper.
“Oh, baby, don’t beg me. It turns me on.”
“Jude!”
He sighs, making a long, elaborate effort of it. “He needs telling.”
“I can handle Steers.”
“I have more of a presence than you.”
“Hard no, Jude,” I warn. “If you want to see me tonight, or any other night, for that matter, cancel your fucking meeting.” I hang up and yell, slamming my phone down on my desk. “Fucking man.” Dumping myself in my chair, I close my eyes and take a few moments to breathe. Calm. Give me calm.
My landline rings on my desk, but I don’t answer, definitely not feeling very calm yet. It rings off and rings again. Then rings off and my mobile starts. I lose my breath when I see Tilda Spector’s name. “Fuck,” I whisper, slapping my cheeks and blowing out a few controlled breaths. “Tilda,” I answer, happy.
“Amelia, I tried the office, but the receptionist couldn’t get through. I’m not disturbing you, am I?”
“No, no. Sorry, I was on another call. How are you?”
“Very good. I wondered if we could meet.”
My back goes ramrod straight in my chair. I feel like I’ve been waiting weeks for this call. “Absolutely.” I bite my tongue, refraining from asking why, and she laughs a little.
“Not a vulture, are you, Amelia?”
“Hate them,” I say, smiling.
“How does Wednesday next week sound?”
“Perfect. Just let me know where and when.”
“I’ll have my assistant make a lunch reservation and email you the details. Look forward to it, Amelia.”
She cuts the call, and I sit back in my chair, my smile wide, feeling so much calmer. “Yes,” I hiss, performing a ridiculous fist pump that I would die before doing in public.
“Fuck!” The distant curse has me looking at the door, and, curious, I get up and pull it open. Leighton’s storming down the corridor, cursing his arse off.
I peek down at my phone when it dings.
Done. For future reference, threatening abstinence is a hard no for me.
I grin and close my door, hearing my computer ping. Rounding my desk, I smile when I see an email from Leo Lombardy.
The stars are aligning.
Chapter 15
As I walk out of my building, a call comes in from Nick, and I cringe as I reject it, wondering—and worrying—about how I’m going to tell him. And when. I can’t file away that responsibility forever. Wish I could. I squint at the screen of my mobile, thoughtful. Maybe . . .
I start to type out a message to him. Stop. Delete it. Start again. Stop again. Delete it again. “Shit.” I stuff my phone in my bag. I can’t tell him via text. I owe him more than that.