Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
She was wrung out by the time the reception wound down. The only thing she could be grateful for was that Ransom hadn’t cornered her while she felt vulnerable.
They’d screwed up so badly before. How could she trust that they’d be any better at it now?
Chapter Seventeen
Monday morning. First thing. Ransom slammed down the phone. Luckily, Ava’s poor assistant had already hung up, or he might have broken her eardrum.
Ava was sending Naomi Wells to deal with him on the catering issues.
He’d thought things had changed after yesterday, after she helped him set up the cake, after they’d talked so pleasantly. He’d thought she was softening when she thanked him for the wedding menu he’d made just for her.
Obviously, he’d thought wrong. And now his blood boiled. He’d told Ava right from the start that he would deal only with her. Yet she had the gall to have her assistant call and say she’d be coming over instead of Ava.
If anyone was going to check out his progress and ask him questions, it would be Ava herself.
He had to tackle her now—not tomorrow, not later, now. Grabbing his jacket off the hook, he flung open the door and marched past his assistants, growling, “I’ll be back,” without further explanation.
While his feet ate up the distance between their offices, he seethed—a thing Ransom didn’t normally do. Ever. He was not letting her run away, which she was obviously trying to do. He would work with Ava, or the work would stop. That was their deal.
Once in the building, he stabbed the elevator button so hard his finger actually ached. In her office, he stalked past her assistant, who held up her hand, shock raising her eyebrows, calling, “Mr. Yates—wait—”
Ava’s door was open, she was seated at her desk, and he closed the door behind him.
“Why did you close the door?” She stood, her voice halfway between indignant and terrified.
“Because I don’t want anyone interrupting us when they hear a lot of shouting.” He marched to her desk, facing her over the expanse of wood. “I said I’d only work with you.” He jabbed his finger—still smarting from the elevator—at her. “But you tried to send your assistant.”
“I thought you’d need a break from me after working so hard on Gideon and Rosie’s wedding.”
“That’s a load of crap, and you know it. If I needed a break, then you’d be the one working with my assistant.”
Dammit, it had all been going so well yesterday. At least, after she’d dragged him out the front door to accuse him of spilling the beans about their history. It had been obvious to everyone—except her—how he felt about her. After that minor tiff, though, she’d seemed mollified. No, more than mollified. They’d talked, laughed. It was like the San Juan Bautista trip.
And now this. He didn’t get it.
“What happened yesterday?” he asked, softening his voice, taking the edge off his angry tone. “We worked so well setting up for the cake. You liked everything on the menu. And you were the one who asked me to help Gideon and Rosie. Why would you do that if we weren’t getting along?”
She didn’t soften. Instead, she gritted her teeth. “That was a wedding, and I was grateful you did it. But this is business, and I’ve got a lot to do today. All I wanted was for Naomi to check on your progress.”
“You’re lying.”
Her face reddened, either because he was right or because he’d pissed her off.
“Let’s not pussyfoot around,” she snapped. “We both know that when you’re done with this catering project, you’ll say, ‘So glad I could help out.’” She waved her hands while she mimicked him. “‘And now I’m returning to my fabulously famous chef’s life. See ya later, bye.’ We both knew this was only temporary. We never talked long term.”
“I never even thought about saying anything like that.”
“Right.” She lasered him with amber eyes so hot they turned gold in the sunlight streaming through the windows. “But how do I know that’s not what you’re thinking? ‘Time’s up, gotta go.’”
“I never gave you a time limit.”
Frustrated, or maybe because she didn’t want to answer, she threw her pen down on the desk. “Of course there was a time limit. You never thought this was long term.”
He asked very softly, “Did you think it was?”
“I—well—” she stammered, as if he’d knocked the wind out of her. But then Ava straightened her shoulders. “I just thought that since you’re the master of leaving…” She left it at that.
If he’d knocked the wind out of her with his question, she blew away all his righteous indignation with those words.
He’d planned to come back, to finish the conversation, to have it out with her, and yes, to bring her around to his way of thinking. But the truth was, fifteen years ago he’d left at the height of the biggest fight of their relationship, the only real fight. When she hadn’t texted him, he hadn’t texted her, as if they were playing some sort of teenage game. Then he’d come back, and she was gone. Technically she’d left him; he’d been telling himself that for years. Justifying himself.