Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52779 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 264(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
I could have my secretary call her, get her to come to my office and explain the situation. They can offer her the temporary position filling in for my chief accountant. Or I could call her myself. That sounds like more fun. So much for keeping my distance.
I message her and ask if she has time to meet for a quick drink to discuss a work matter. We can meet in public, a brief one-drink situation with a specific focus. The tone I set is brisk, businesslike. The thoughts I have in my head for her are anything but that.
She says yes, naming a spot I never would’ve guessed she would pick. An old townie bar that I went to with Rory when we were younger, gritty and loud with reliably good drinks and a bartender/owner older than the hills. I go on with my day trying to pretend I’m not willing time to go faster.
8
KATE
It’s no big deal. I’m meeting the boss for a drink. It’s just to talk about work. Maybe there’s a project he wants me to work on. Or maybe Elaine bitched about how I didn’t change the toner in the copier and now he has to take a break from running his complex and largely illegal organized crime syndicate so he can deal with an HR issue involving his buddy’s annoying little sister.
Riley’s is how I remember it.
Mickey is already at a little table in the corner. He gets to his feet when I walk in the bar like we’re at some fancy supper and you have to stand up when the queen enters or something. The thought makes me laugh. I make my way through the cluster of tables set too close together in the little room that’s dominated by a gleaming, if nicked and scuffed, bar and a massive TV anchored above it.
“What’s got you laughing?” he asks after we sit.
“Nothing. I just thought of something funny.”
“Okay,” he says and doesn’t pursue it. A barmaid comes by and asks what we want.
“Get us some of the beer cheese dip with pretzels and you like spinach artichoke?” He asks me. I nod because who the hell doesn’t like that? “You can bring us that too. I’ll have a beer and she’ll have, what? Shirley Temple?” he teases.
“I’m twenty-seven, Mick.” I roll my eyes at him. “Vodka cranberry, please.”
“I never thought I’d be taking you to a bar,” he shakes his head like he can’t believe it.
“I grew up.”
“You sure as hell did,” he says, and something dark flashes in his eyes so quickly I almost convince myself I didn’t see it. Still, it makes me go warm all over, cross and uncross my legs beneath the little table. I accidentally kick him.
“Sorry,” I say, “Close quarters.” I try to hide the heat that rises up my neck in reaction to that accidental touch.
“Did you have a good day?” He asks, awkwardly attempting to make small talk.
“It was fine. You?”
“Not so good.”
“What happened?” I sit up straighter. I’m on alert.
“One of my employees had a heart attack.”
“Oh no! Is he okay?”
“He’s in ICU at Mass Gen now. They said he’s stable but he’s got kind of a long road ahead, rehab and all that to get back on his feet.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
“Me, too. He’s a good guy. And I depend on him. It’s Benny Ragucci.”
“Mr. Ragucci still works for you?” I ask. “I thought he was old when I was a kid.”
“He probably was. Were you in school with his daughter?”
“No, Jen was older than me,” I say. “Like five years.”
He nods and takes a long drink of his beer as the waitress delivers two big platters of apps that barely fit on our tiny table.
“I hope he makes a full recovery,” I say out of obligation.
I rip off part of a soft pretzel and dunk it in steaming hot cheese dip. I groan out loud.
“Good, right? They make it with Guinness,” he says. He scoops some up and nods in agreement, making an appreciative grunt of his own.
If I shut my eyes, I could imagine him making those noises from between my thighs. I press my legs together tighter and force the thought away. I shift in my seat, uncomfortable, sure that my cheeks are flaming and a familiar tug low in my belly pulses.
“This is where you come in,” he says a minute later.
“Hmm?” It’s all I manage to say.
“Ragucci’s down for the count for at least a few months. I need someone to take his place, someone I trust.”
“Who’s his second in command? Surely at his age he’s grooming someone to take over.”
“Yeah, the nephew,” the way he says nephew might as well be a slur. I know all I need to know about the man Ragucci’s training to take his place—unsuitable, slick or incompetent or both, but shady. Shady is a given from the tone of his voice alone.