Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
He was looking at me like I was a woman.
I mean, I am a woman. Twenty-five and in my prime. In theory, anyway. Men still treat me like I’m hideously disfigured even though Natalie swears I’m pretty. And I think she’s right. I have thick auburn hair, nice lips, and a solid figure. I’m on the short side and I could probably lose a little extra weight, but it’s all in my boobs and my butt, so it’s not a huge deal.
That just makes this all so much more confusing.
“It’s got to be a professional thing,” I say with more confidence. “Mr. Whelan wouldn’t cross that line, right?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s not capable of it.” She hesitates, tapping a finger against her lip. “Well, I mean, I’m sure he’s capable of it, just based on his tight suit pants—”
“Natalie!”
“But he’s Boss Bastard, right? With the emotional range of a broken refrigerator?”
“Exactly.” I groan and squeeze my eyes shut. “But what if it’s not?”
That question hangs in the air between us and she doesn’t have an answer.
It’s why I’m wearing this black, knee-length sheath dress, in theory safe and suitable for work, except it’s got a neckline that dips down just on the wrong side of low, showing off slightly too much cleavage.
I’ve never worn it before. Never had a reason. It’s serious enough that I wouldn’t take it on a normal date, but too revealing for a work event.
But this is neither of those things.
I can’t be on a date. Not with Boss Bastard. But Mr. Whelan would never take me to Dolce Vita, the most trendy and expensive restaurant in New York City at the moment, not for a work reason. He’s way too cheap for that.
Nothing about this situation makes sense, and my outfit reflects it.
I put on a pair of strappy heels. Again, they’re not exactly screaming fuck-me, but I wouldn’t walk around the office in them. I keep the jewelry minimal, just small pearl studs, but I finish the whole outfit off with bold red lipstick.
Natalie raises her eyebrows when I put it on.
“Sexy and confident,” she comments. “I like the choice.”
“I want him looking at my mouth and not at my tits.”
“He’ll be picturing himself going to town on either end, I bet.”
“Natalie!” I throw the lipstick tube at her. She laughs, batting it aside. “This is professional.”
“Then what’s with the tits? And the lacy bra?”
“Hedging my bets. He said to wear something venue appropriate, and it’s Dolce Vita.”
“Good point, but still.”
“We’re just going to discuss work stuff, that’s all it is. I bet I’ll get there and he’ll have some other girl at the table. He’ll probably ask me to take notes.”
“God, can you imagine?” She laughs lightly, but her smile quickly fades. “Oh my god, do you think that’s actually going to happen?”
“I mean, it’s totally possible.”
“I’ll kick him in the teeth if he puts you through that.”
“Honestly?” I sit down next to her with a groan. “I’d prefer that over the alternative.”
She gives me a consoling pat on the leg. “What if this is a date though? What are you going to do?”
“Freak out, probably.”
“Are you going to call him Declan?”
“Wow, can you imagine? I’ve never used his first name before. It’s always Mr. Whelan or sir.”
She grins and waggles her eyebrows. “I bet he loves hearing you say sir.”
“Stop it. Not helpful.”
“Would it be that terrible though? I mean, seriously, he’s hot as hell and rich as sin. The guy’s family is crazy connected. And I bet he’s into some seriously weird and fun bedroom stuff.”
I hold up a hand to stop her right there. “I’m not interested.”
“Are you sure? Knowing your track record, you should probably take what you can get, right? Boss Bastard is a terror in the boardroom, but between the sheets, I bet he’s—”
“Not interested!” I repeat, cutting her fantasy off. “I’m only going because he’s my employer and because I feel bad about the whole sex toys and lingerie mix-up. I’ll eat with him, we’ll discuss work stuff, and I’ll be home by nine sharp. It’ll be fine.”
“But what if it’s not?”
“I’ll text you, how about that? If you don’t hear from me by, let’s say, ten tonight, make sure you call and text like there’s some kind of emergency, okay?”
“I can do that,” she says slowly. “But are you sure? Declan Whelan is gorgeous, and besides—”
“And besides nothing. This is professional.” I check my phone. It’s time. I get to my feet, wobbling slightly. “I’ll text you soon, okay?”
Mr. Whelan’s driver leaves me at the door of Dolce Vita. It’s in a hip West Village neighborhood and looks like an old-style Italian restaurant had a baby with a Starbucks, which is apparently cool these days.
The hostess takes me straight back despite the crowd waiting around. I catch a few annoyed stares, but I don’t let them bother me. I’m used to a little bit of privilege from working for Mr. Whelan over the years.