Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 43239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 216(@200wpm)___ 173(@250wpm)___ 144(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43239 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 216(@200wpm)___ 173(@250wpm)___ 144(@300wpm)
“You can curse and I can’t?”
“Yes.” I close the space between us. “Lastly, pack your bags. You’re flying to New York in forty-eight hours. You need every second of my help, and we don’t have a moment to waste.”
She looks like she’s one smart remark away from slapping me, so I keep a close eye on her hands.
“Fine.” Her voice comes out in a soft, reluctant breath. “I accept your terms, but I still need time to read the contract.”
“Fair enough.” I extend a hand. “Technically, I accept your terms as well.”
She doesn’t take my hand.
Instead, she turns on her heels and takes off across the yard. The wind kicks up just as she reaches the edge—ruffling her shorts, flashing the bare curve of her ass.
God, help me.
NINE
ELIZA
Martha Stewart: Entertaining. Manners of the Lady. Royal Women and Things They Do (& Don’t). The Art of Being a Lady.
There’s a stack of hardback books and a first-class ticket from Nashville to New York sitting on the edge of my bed when I wake up in the morning.
Even worse, there’s a handwritten note from Mr. Manhattan next to the ticket.
Lesson #1: Wear a cocktail dress and heels for our flight.
My chest tightens, and I have an immediate change of heart.
I don’t own a pair of heels, and I have no idea what a “cocktail” dress is. All my dresses are just… dresses.
Needing to back out of this before it can begin, I rush to Jackson’s office. As I approach, I overhear him on the phone and can’t help but eavesdrop again.
“I can personally guarantee that when you meet with our representative at this year’s conference, she’ll impress you in every single way,” he says. “Looking forward to your consideration.”
He hangs up and looks at me.
“Hey there.” He smiles. “Something wrong?”
“Yeah, it’s…” I stop myself mid-sentence.
This isn’t about you, Eliza.
It’s about what your mom would say about helping your brother.
“Eliza?” He furrows his brow. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I, uh… I was hoping you’d carry all my stuff downstairs when I’m finished packing.”
“You really think you need to ask me to do that?”
“I’ll see you later.” I rush back to my suite and force myself to pack.
It’s just eight weeks, Eliza. Just eight weeks…
TEN
ELIZA
An eternity later
I’ve never been more grateful to be left out of a conversation.
Harrison and my brother haven’t stopped laughing since we started our drive to Nashville’s airport. They’ve been trading stories, inside jokes, old college memories—some of which involve girls, bar fights, and things I’d rather not know about.
Strangely, Jackson has never laughed this hard with me.
He’s relaxed, easygoing—like a version of himself I don’t recognize. Someone who actually sounds like he has a life outside our farm…
Still, the longer he reminisces with Mr. Manhattan, the tighter my stomach coils—and the more I wonder whether I’d survive if I jumped onto the highway.
By mile eighty, I’m silently rooting for a Mack truck to take us all out.
Maybe we’d get some sympathy business deals out of it.
The second we roll to a stop in the unloading zone, I’m already out of the car. Opening the trunk, I pull out my suitcase and carry-on bag.
As I’m rolling it to the curb, Jackson pulls me into a long hug and kisses my cheek.
“Thank you for doing this,” he says. “You have no idea what this means to me.”
I still don’t understand what he means by this, but I nod stiffly.
He shakes Harrison’s hand—like this is some kind of victory lap—then drives off before I can jump on the bumper and beg him to take me back.
“Well…” I let out a breath and decide to be nice. “Since we’re going to be spending the next several weeks together, Mr. Manhattan—”
“What part of wear a cocktail dress and heels for this flight was unclear?” He cuts me off. “I told you to do that for a reason.”
“If you’d asked instead of commanded,” I say, “you’d know that I don’t own any heels.”
“Not a single pair?”
“Do you own a single pair?”
“No.” A slow smirk crosses his lips. “My apologies for assuming. When I first met you, you were wearing a dress… What’s your excuse for not wearing one now?”
“I don’t like wearing them,” I admit.
“You made a deal with me, Eliza,” he says, looking me up and down. “You need to do what I say and wear what I say if you want results.”
“What do you want me to do, then?” I ask. “Pull a dress out of my suitcase and change into it?”
“That would be nice.”
“Now?”
“After we get through security, yes.”
Holding back a groan, I bend to grab my suitcase, but he beats me to it—grabbing the handle like he dares me to take it back.
“Never handle your own luggage or carry things when you’re traveling with a man,” he says. “The guy should offer to do it for you.”