Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
I watch his mouth as he speaks. Good lips. Solid teeth. Straight and white. Perfect, everything in place. That’s Gareth, never a stray hair, never a blemish. The man wakes up in the morning, takes a deep breath, and the world bends to his image of it.
Then he drags me along, kicking and screaming, expecting me to live up to exacting standards.
That recruiter tried to warn me. I should’ve listened.
Three months now. I’ve been with him for three months, but I’m barely keeping up. If he weren’t paying me absurdly well—seriously, like double the normal going rate for a basic legal assistant—I would’ve quit already.
Unfortunately, I need the stupid money, what with the staggering mountain of student loan debt, the general lack of supportive or even emotionally available parents, and a best friend that moved off to the middle-of-nowhere Kentucky to start a farm with her good-looking husband and her adorable little baby (number two on the way).
Basically, I’ve got nothing going for me, which is why I can chase after Gareth Kane and take notes while he talks.
“When we reach the bar, I need you to do something simple for me,” he says, shifting from mock-argument to business talk so seamlessly I almost think this is still part of the speech.
“Uh, sorry, Mr. Kane. Bar?” I blink rapidly. “I thought we were going to a meeting with prospective clients.”
He scowls at me. “Like I was saying, when we get to the bar—” Remind me never to interrupt Mr. Controlling-Asshole ever again— “I need you to follow some simple instructions. Are you ready?”
“Go ahead, Mr. Kane.”
“I need you to find a seat out of the way. A corner, a booth, a stool in a corner, I don’t care. Somewhere quiet where you won’t be noticed.”
“I can do that,” I say, nodding as I write: Find a corner and get wasted.
He continues: “You will not drink alcohol.” I scratch out the get wasted part. “But you can order food.” I write in its place order wings. “You will remain in your position for as long as I’m in the meeting. You will not interrupt. You will not speak to me if I happen to walk past you unless I approach you first. Under no circumstances will you make yourself known until we’re finished. Do you understand?”
“Not seen nor heard, understood.” You’re a literal doormat, I write, smiling at him the whole time.
He stares at me, frowning. “I need to reiterate here, Fiona. No matter what, don’t come find me. Don’t come talk to me. These new clients are notoriously private.”
“Can I ask who you’re meeting with, Mr. Kane?”
“No,” he says crisply. “All you need to do is be present in case you’re needed.”
“Understood. I’ll be invisible otherwise.”
His eyes narrow, not sure if I’m joking. I give him another sweet smile.
“Do your best not to get into trouble.” He turns away, looking out the window again as we drift deeper into Boston.
“Me? Trouble?” I smile to myself as I put away the notebook. “I’d never dream of it, Mr. Kane.”
Chapter 2
Fiona
It’s not the kind of bar I imagined.
Gareth Kane is a martinis-in-the-lounge kind of guy. He likes high-end everything, from suits to cars to whiskey. He works hard, earns obscene amounts of money, and spends like he’s never heard of the word retirement.
He’s not shy about it, either.
But this place is a dive. There’s a drop ceiling—an actual drop ceiling with probably-not-but-maybe-asbestos tiles—and fake wood all over the walls. Neon signs advertise beers I’m pretty sure don’t exist anymore, and some ancient-looking faded pictures of retired Boston sports stars are tacked up on the walls—with actual tacks.
It’s quiet at four in the afternoon. Gareth scowls around for a moment until he leads me to the far end and deposits me at the end of a curving bar in the shadows of what I assume must be a kitchen. Or maybe where they send discontinued beers to die. “You’ll stay here,” he declares.
“I thought the meeting wasn’t until six,” I say, blinking rapidly. “You want me to sit here for two hours?”
“It’ll be three or four hours by the time I’m finished.” He looks at me, head tilted. “Can you handle it, Fiona?”
My jaw works. This man’s an absolute masochist. How he thinks it’s even remotely rational to ask me to do nothing but stare at my phone for three or four hours in a bar that smells like puke, cheap whiskey, desperation, and cigarettes, without at least a glass of wine, is beyond the pale, but fine, I’ve done worse.
I really need this job.
“I can handle it, Mr. Kane.” I bat my eyelids at him.
He doesn’t like that. “Remember. Don’t come looking for me. The meeting will be in this bar, but we are strangers from here on out. The prospective clients don’t know you’re accompanying me, and I don’t want to risk losing their business over something so minor. Do you understand?”