Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 83171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
What is Skye doing right now? I could call her, but I still don’t have her number. Easy enough to get, but I doubt any of my team would be excited to hear from me at eleven on a Friday night.
Damn! She pisses me off. I shouldn’t be wanting to call her. I want her almost too much, and it’s disorienting. It’s throwing me off my game, and I can’t be off my game.
Ever.
…
I rise early Saturday morning and take Sasha on a long walk, and we end at a dog park where I let her off her leash and she runs around and plays with the other dogs. I find a bench, sit, and—of course—check my phone. As usual, some business requires my attention. Time to go.
I whistle. “Come on, Sasha!”
She looks up, her cute puppy eyes pleading, and then she continues her play.
Nice try.
I walk over and leash her. “Sorry, girl. Time to go.”
She reluctantly comes along.
Back home, I hand my pup over to Annika’s capable hands and head into the office. The real office. Yeah, I’m wearing jeans and a Grateful Dead T-shirt, but it’s Saturday. I really want to call Claire and ask her to come in and lend a hand, but I resist the urge. My staff works hard during the week, and most of them covet their weekends.
I don’t blame them.
Years ago, when I did construction for a living, working for my father’s small company, I was one of those people who coveted time off. We didn’t get much. We worked six days a week most weeks, for up to fifteen-hours stretches sometimes.
I learned hard work from my father. Once he got sober and got his act together…
Well, it wasn’t just the sobriety that forced him to get his act together.
And I really don’t want to think about any of that shit right now.
So I dive in and tackle what I do best.
Work.
…
Two prospectuses and four phone calls later, I rise and stretch. The sun has gone down, and dusk shades the view from my office window. What the hell time is it, anyway? I’ve had my phone on speaker this whole time, and I haven’t bothered to check the hour.
Eight thirty? Not surprising. I lose track of time a lot. Ben says I’m a workaholic, though he works nearly as much as I do. He’s not here now, though. He’s probably out with a woman.
Smart man.
I could find a woman easily. I’m horny as hell, so I give it a minute of thought.
Then I dismiss it.
Because I only want one woman.
I pick up my phone to check Skye’s Instagram. What’s she doing right now? Most likely she’s home or possibly out with friends. Perhaps the good-looking bestie who makes appearances in her posts.
Before I even click on her profile, though, a photo appears on my feed.
It’s Skye and her bestie.
Hanging out at the MADD Gala with the bestie! @tessalolita #madd #gala #bestiesforever
Skye looks gorgeous. She’s fucking glowing. And those tits. They’re nearly spilling out of the clingy little black dress she’s wearing. Her hair is down, tumbling in soft waves over her shoulders, and her eyes are bright, long-lashed, and sparkling. And those lips… Painted with a red tint and parted…
I adjust my groin.
Skye is out on the town. Not only out but at the MADD Gala—an event I was asked to sponsor but turned down.
Fuck it all. I could be there right now. With Skye and her little black dress and her glistening red lips.
I could be there.
And I’m not.
But I can fix that.
Chapter Fifteen
“Mr. Black!” Lila Marquez, a prominent member of the Junior League of Boston and head of this event, rushes toward me as soon as I ease into her peripheral view outside the ballroom. “You came!”
“Good evening, Lila. You’re looking lovely as always.”
Lila smiles, a blush gracing her cheeks, and her eyelids flutter slightly.
“I’d like a ticket, please.”
“Mr. Black—”
“Braden, please.”
She blushes again. “Braden… Dinner’s over. We have dancing and the auction results, of course, but I’m afraid there aren’t any tables.”
“I don’t need a place at a table. Just a ticket to enter the event.”
“But you won’t—”
“Not a problem, I assure you. I only want to enter the event. There’s a…person inside I’d like to confer with.”
“Of course! You don’t need a reason. Go ahead in, Mr.— Braden.”
“I’m happy to pay for a ticket.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Then you’ll find a generous donation in your inbox Monday morning. Thank you, Lila.” I whisk past her and enter the ballroom, scanning the dimly lit space for Skye.
A band is playing swing music, and quite a few couples are dancing. I recognize Skye’s bestie, @tessalolita. She’s wearing a red dress and dancing with Garrett Ramirez, a local architect whose firm, Reardon Brothers, put in a bid on my new building.
They won’t be getting it. I don’t like how that particular firm does business.