Miss Holly sends the Winthrope property catalog at eleven a.m., before her new noon deadline, and Winthrope comes in at two for his “check-in,” as he calls it.
For a man who’s loaded beyond belief and routinely shows up on the world’s Top 100 list of billionaires, Ross Winthrope is in a class of his own.
If someone uploaded Willy Wonka’s brain to a Victorian hotel mogul, you’d get something pretty close to the stuffy, demanding, and utterly eccentric man who’s come all the way here from London.
I try not to stare too hard at the royal purple suit he’s decked out in today, complete with an antique gold pocket watch sporting a chain that looks like it could leash a polar bear.
He loves Grandma’s designs, and that’s all that matters.
Fortunately for us, her rare aesthetic seems like one he wants to add to his portfolio of stunning properties around the world. If we can just close this out, he’ll pay more zeroes than any of us have ever seen.
I let Grandma do the talking.
They’ve been at it for over an hour when he looks at her and says, “Your concepts are always transcendent, Mrs. Brandt. Your office is clean, sleek, soulful, and modern, and you’re every bit as gracious and responsible as Godfrey was. God rest his soul.” He bows his head. “I’m glad to see you’re still running the place. If there’s one thing I loathe about newer firms, it’s the immature, money-grubbing bachelors who steer them. They’re always too high on dreams, low on discipline, and lack the dreams big enough to ground them.”
I stiffen in my seat like a stone.
His peripheral vision captures my brother and me.
Message received.
It’s disguised as a backhanded compliment, but what he really means is, “I like your firm since you’re here to babysit your Peter Pan grandsons.”
In fairness, Nick might need a babysitter.
I damn sure don’t.
Once Winthrope’s in the elevator with the doors firmly closed, I let out a low, exasperated growl. It was an exercise in restraint holding it in this long.
Grandma and Nick both give me odd looks, but I’ve got nothing to add.
Making this dream come true for Brandt Ideas won’t be easy.
Then again, putting up with Ross Winthrope suddenly feels simple compared to the blond bombshell with a destroyer mouth I desperately need to stop aching to ruin.
The next morning, Miss Holly conveniently forgets my coffee. Again.
Of course she remembers Grandma’s and Nick’s drinks.
And the day after that, she waltzes into my office with stilettos clip-clopping against marble, announcing her arrival like a black cat catching its claws on a shag carpet.
I glance up from my work. “There should be laws against you wearing heels. Buy new shoes before you endanger yourself and half the office.”
Her full-pout, flirty pink lips open and she looks at the floor.
I die.
All because I’m torn with regret for not kissing her when I had the chance, and relief that I didn’t.
She sighs. “I thought they were cute. You don’t like them?”
Oh, I like.
Her black pencil skirt hugs the curve of her ass and the hem bobs up and down, just above her knee, revealing perfectly shaped calves any man would kill for. I try not to think about those legs, wrapped around me in nothing but heels, spurring me to render her speechless.
She’s more than cute, and it’s doing a horrific number on my last nerve.
“No one’s ogling your feet in this office. They’re too busy. Also, you’re dangerous in heels,” I growl, refusing to meet her eyes.
“Does that mean you accept I only had one glass of wine that night if you’re blaming the shoes for my balance?” She purses her lips.
Fuck, I could bite them.
“Not a chance. Why are you in my office, anyway?”
“Oh—nothing.” She holds her arm out, offering me the tall white Bean Bar cup clasped in her hand.
The name on the cup says “Warden.”
Lovely. She’s been talking to Reese.
I snatch the cup from her hand. When I plunk it down on my desk, under the name, I see Paige’s handwriting scrawled across a pink Post-it.
A sweet morning pick-me-up. Truce?
“Enjoy, bossman,” she whispers, turning to exit the room.
She swings her hips with every step.
Goddamn, is she doing it just to taunt me?
Does she know I feel like an armed grenade every second I look at her?
There’s nothing to truce over anyway, but it’s never a bad time for a double shot. Lifting the cup to my lips, I take a loud gulp—then promptly spray dark muck across the room.
Fuck! If this was any sweeter, it’d be liquid black cotton candy.
This is her peace offering? Trying to poison me?
If she wants a battle, let’s roll.
I jump on my laptop, forwarding her every meaningless assignment that’s ever touched my Inbox over the last six months, busywork I couldn’t muster a single shit about. All due tonight.