Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 23927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23927 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
Right there, dead center, at the very top of the list, staring back at me with a stoic expression that roared authority and power, was Anthony Blackwell.
CEO.
Owner of the company.
Multimillionaire.
And the man I slept with the previous night.
As if my body wanted to remind me of what I’d done, my pussy started to throb, and I found myself placing my fingers right over the sensitive area, still remembering how it felt when he was deep inside me.
The phone slipped from my fingers and fell to the mattress beside me. Good God. I fucked the boss.
I was staring at the wall, when my phone started ringing again. With my eyes closed and a groan spilling from my lips, I grabbed the cell and answered, knowing it was my mother.
“Hi, Mom.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked, the sound of pots and pans banging coming through the line so loudly I winced and rubbed my eyes.
I held in the groan this time and fell back on the bed, the water already dried on my body, the towel loose as I flopped back like a dead fish. “I’m fine. I just drank too much at the company party last night and have a headache now.”
She tsked but didn’t comment on it. “Listen, your father asked for lasagna for dinner. You okay with that? I’m making tiramisu for dessert, and he grabbed some of that homemade garlic bread from the bakery in town.”
“It all sounds great, Mom.”
“Dammit,” she cursed.
“You okay?”
“The steam off the noodles is hot as hell.”
I chuckled, picturing her pouring out the pasta water and a cloud of steam rolling up. She never learned. I remembered her in this same situation plenty of times growing up.
“Don’t say it,” she said, and I heard her smile.
“I wasn’t going to.”
She started laughing, and I heard my dad in the background shouting, most likely about something on the television.
“Tell her, Darlene.” My dad’s muffled voice sounded closer, as if he were walking toward her.
My mom exhaled. “Pyper, to start, I want to tell you I didn’t have any part of this.”
I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. “Sounds promising,” I replied sarcastically.
There was a shuffle, and I knew my father was grabbing the phone. “Hey, darling.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“Would it be okay if we had a guest tonight?”
I shook my head, even if he couldn’t see me. “Please tell me you aren’t trying to set me up.” I rubbed my eyes, the headache even worse now. My parents always meant well, but the last thing I ever wanted was for one of them to try to set me up.
No thanks.
“Um—”
Dad interrupted my mom, “Just have dinner with him. He’s the son of Mr. Borowski. You remember him from when we had the deck built?”
“No, Dad.”
“Anyway,” he plowed right through, “his son is your age. Got a good head on his shoulders. Works with his father in the family business.” At my silence, he said, “It’s just dinner, Pyper. One night. See how you like him. Maybe you’ll hit it off.”
The last thing I needed right now was a blind date, but my dad sounded so sincere, and I could picture him standing there, looking all hopeful.
“Okay, Dad,” I finally murmured after a lengthy pause. “But please, let’s not make it weird.”
“I don’t make shit weird, darling.”
I snorted and pushed myself up on the bed. “No telling stories about when I was younger and got gum stuck in my hair, and I ended up giving myself a mullet trying to get it out.”
He barked out a laugh. “But they are such cute stories.”
“I’ll be there at six … with bells on,” I said with thick sarcasm laced in my words.
“Love ya,” Mom shouted.
“Love you, honey. See you then.”
I disconnected the call and sat there a moment, my mind not on what a disaster this blind date would be. All my thoughts were still on Anthony Blackwell and how exactly I was going to deal with the fact that I slept with the most powerful man I knew.
9
PYPER
I wondered if my blind date felt as awkward as I did right then.
The silence at the table was intermittent, only broken up by one of my parents asking Leland about the “family business” or trying to strike up a conversation between the two of us.
Things were stilted and forced, and there was nothing more I wanted than to just go home and sleep off this lingering hangover.
“Honey, get the tiramisu,” my mother said as she poured herself another glass of wine. “Pyper?” She held the bottle up, and I grimaced.
“No thanks.” I picked up my water glass and took a long pull.
“Late night, huh?” Leland asked and winked. He grabbed his beer, the one my father just got for him when he grabbed one for himself.
Leland was nice enough. A good sport when it was very clear my parents were trying to push us into a conversation. But I couldn’t get my mind off Anthony, and it was irritating me.