I pinch my nose to swallow another sip of triple espresso loaded with sugar.
Six days ago, I wasn’t a huge coffee drinker, aside from those sticky sweet cinnamon lattes I’d always get with Brina.
Six days ago, I didn’t hate my job.
Six freaking days ago, I didn’t know Ward Brandt could obliterate a woman in sixty seconds flat with an apocalyptic kiss.
No, we haven’t discussed it since.
Hell no, I haven’t forgotten.
Could you forget a perfect sunset sliding down your throat? Thawing parts you didn’t even know were frozen?
Calling his kiss divine would be an insult. Those lips were pure precision wrapped in a halo of hot tease, velvet sledgehammers dead set on breaking me apart.
And I’m a little afraid to admit they succeeded.
I don’t think I’ve lived an hour since that kiss without remembering it. His heat, his hunger, his playful softness shifting into wild abandon. Ward kissed like a man laying claim to a woman he wants.
Needs.
He kissed like he flipping needs me.
What do I even do with that? Besides feeling my toes curl up until they hurt every time he walks by, I mean?
Besides feeling butterflies tickling my belly with insistent little wings, total confusion, and no answers. Butterfly wings aren’t as easy to read as tea leaves, apparently, and neither is my blackhole of a boss.
Right now, I’m just trying to forget the whole incident because I’m here on a mission.
I tap on the outside of a tall glass office that has Trista written neatly across the screen in glittery purple letters.
She doesn’t answer, but I see her sitting at the computer, a lovely round woman with pink highlights in her jet-black hair.
“Pssst. Trista!” I hiss, pawing at her cube like a cat wanting attention.
I don’t have time for this. I slide the screen back.
Ick. I’m acting like Ward. Hopefully his bossholery didn’t rub off in that kiss?
She doesn’t look up, and I realize she’s wearing headphones.
I knock louder and wave. “Hey, Trista!”
The woman throws her hands back and gasps in surprise. I can’t help but giggle as she steps out and invites me in.
“Oh, shit, sorry, Paige. What’s up?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just need to know where we’re at on the Winthrope designs.”
She rolls her chair away from her desk and spins it to her screen, then faces me again. “The entire team is working on creating a model for final approval now. I’m sourcing materials to put together a quote.” She’s quiet for a minute, her face tense.
I can tell there’s more.
“But?” I venture.
She lets out a tired sigh. “Well, Paige, my team has never been asked to pull a rabbit out of their hats so fast. The Winthrope project is a world-class luxury property requiring a lot of detail. Far bigger than anything this firm has tackled. All of that detail has to be present in the model. Don’t tell me this is a rush contract? I was under the impression we’re still working off of a tentative acceptance.”
Her eyes are pleading.
“That’s right. Tentative,” I assure her.
She’s not wrong about the intricacies involved, and the many worries. I jot down her concerns to discuss with Ward later on my tablet.
I’m not even shocked by the gaping yawn she releases in my face.
“Sorry,” she mutters.
Don’t be, lady.
For the past six days, I’ve slept a max of four hours a night, so I know the feeling. This poor woman looks more frayed than me.
“Are you okay, Trista?”
“I’m...surviving. Same as the rest of the crew. It’s just, because this project is so upscale, there’s a lot being imported. Sourcing for this contract as fast as the Warden wants me to means I’m up all night ‘e-meeting’ international vendors.”
I snicker. “You call him that too?”
She grins. “We all do, but as long as Beatrice was around, we rarely had to work with him breathing down our throats. Is she okay? When’s she coming back anyway?”
I pause, unsure what to say.
Ward has me checking in with every team daily to make sure they’re all on track. He’s determined there’ll be zero hitches with this contract on his watch.
Trista’s reaction is the same I’ve already heard from at least a dozen people. Every employee and project manager I’ve talked to tells me they’re not used to being micromanaged by Captain Wardhole. They’re also having an angst fit over Beatrice’s return.
Being the messenger for chief micromanager feels like being the grim reaper.
No one wants to see me coming to peck at their progress.
But I put on my best diplomatic smile. “Beatrice Brandt is on the mend, don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll be back soon. This place is like her second home!”
Trista gives me a skeptical look and starts to open her mouth, but my tablet pings with a scheduling reminder. Time to move.
I hate cutting things short, but I still have three other teams to check with.