Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 49814 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 249(@200wpm)___ 199(@250wpm)___ 166(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49814 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 249(@200wpm)___ 199(@250wpm)___ 166(@300wpm)
I resist the urge to shiver as it lingers on my breasts. I'm not vain, but I know they look damn good in this dress. The silky black fabric dips low, clinging to my cleavage. It gathers right below, giving me the illusion of a tucked-in waistline instead of highlighting my belly. With the Spanx, I actually look more curvy than round for once.
The dress ends well above mid-thigh, at least six inches above modest and respectable. I'm not sure if it's just the lighting, but it looks like Bastian's eyes darken as they sweep down, lingering on my thighs.
He grunts softly before rising to his feet, all six-foot-four of him encased in black silk, looking like a dream.
Jesus, the man knows how to wear a suit.
"Sorry, I'm late," I mutter. "My car wouldn't start."
His lips compress into a hard, disapproving line. "You need a new car."
"My car is fine, Bastian. I was in a hurry when I got home and forgot to turn the lights off." I take a step toward the chair he holds out for me and then realize the table is set for two. A frown tugs at my lips. "Is this table big enough for a business meeting?"
"A meeting?" Diego asks from where he's standing off to the side. "I was under the impression it would just be the two of you. If there are others joining you, we can certainly move you."
"No need," Bastian says, waving him off. "I've got it from here. Thank you, Diego."
Diego offers the approximation of a bow before rushing off. Probably a good call because I'm already glaring daggers at Bastian as I slide into my seat.
"What's going on?"
"Let me order you something to drink," he says.
"I'm fine. Explain. What is this?"
"Dinner," he says, like it should be obvious, sliding into the seat across from me. His knee bumps mine, sending my heart rate into overdrive. Or maybe that's frustration doing that. "Where the fuck did you get that dress, Constance?"
"The dress store," I retort.
"It's too fucking short."
"And your tie doesn't match your suit."
"What?" His brow furrows as he glances down.
"Different shades of black," I grumble. "My point is, I don't dictate your wardrobe, you don't get to dictate mine. What I wear isn't your business."
"You're my employee. That makes it my business."
I tip my head back, staring up at the rafters as the urge to scream climbs up my throat. I manage to fight it back, barely. And then I count to five, just to make sure it's not going to erupt anyway.
"You told me that we had a meeting tonight."
"And that's what you chose to wear?" He arches a brow, meeting my gaze, all self-possessed arrogance and silent amusement. "Interesting choice."
"There's nothing wrong with my dress."
"You mean other than the fact that it has every man in here desperate to be seated across from you right now? You're right." He takes a sip of wine, eyeing me over the rim. "There's nothing wrong with it. What's wrong is how goddamn beautiful you look in it."
"You did not just say that," I growl.
He shrugs. "You chose to wear it."
"The meeting, Bastian," I snap, trying to drag him back on subject before I crawl across the table into his lap. I'm not entirely sure if I want to kiss him or kill him. As usual.
"It was canceled."
Yeah, I'm definitely going to scream. Or strangle him. I bet I could wrap his not-black-enough-tie around his throat and choke the life out of him with it. Half the people in the restaurant would probably offer assistance. To me, not him. He's lived here his entire life. They know he's a tyrant.
"The meeting was canceled, and you didn't think to tell me?" I say, carefully enunciating each word.
He shrugs like it's not a big deal. "You need to eat. I need to eat. Who we do it with didn't seem relevant."
Oh, my god.
"There was no meeting, was there?"
"I already told you that it was canceled."
I stare at him for a long, silent moment. One thing he's not is a good liar. He may be Satan in an Italian suit, but he has this thing about honesty. It matters to him. And right now, he's lying through his teeth. Badly.
I rise to my feet without another word. My heels clack against the floor as I march out. Everyone looks in my direction, but I don't even care if walking out on Bastian in this damn dress has the whole town talking. He's lying, and if I stay, I may actually stab him with a salad fork.
I make it all the way to the parking lot before he grabs my arm, spinning me around.
"If you don't let go of me right now, I swear to God, you're going to have to surgically remove your balls from your throat, Bastian Grayson," I growl, tugging against his hold.