Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 82077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
“Sounds like a lot of work,” was all I could think of to say. I didn’t really understand the love of numbers and crunching them. My own accountant, who Dane had suggested when Dylan, Fallon and I began our business, was different. Ruben Nieto seemed more like he played polo and jet-setted around the world than a guy who had tax code committed to memory. Preston looked like what I thought he would after he explained his job.
There were six couples at the dinner party, including us, four that were already friends with Preston and Meg, and one other, that were new acquaintances. As Sam knew Preston, but this was my first time meeting him, and Sam’s meeting his wife, technically, one and a half new acquaintances. That was how my brain worked. It turned out that Drew Ingram worked with Preston at the same accounting firm, and his wife, Lani, was an interior decorator.
“What do you do, Sam?” another one of the women wanted to know, and I noted how her eyes mapped every square inch of my husband.
The thing was, at fifty-five—fifty-six come August—Sam Kage was dazzling. And no, he couldn’t run quite as fast as he used to, and his right knee gave him trouble every now and then, but if hard muscles and broad shoulders and a wide chest did it for you, Sam was your man. His thick hair had a bit of silver in it these days, but his smile lit his eyes, and the heavy laugh lines were sexy as hell. And again, his biceps were straining against the fabric of his shirt, and there was no missing that or the veins in his forearms since his sleeves were rolled up. His legs, encased in denim, were a work of art. I could barely take my eyes off him.
“I’m a federal marshal,” he told her with a grin, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and drawing me in close. I was tucked into his side in moments, right where he liked me. “What do you do?”
“I’m in real estate,” she explained. “My company buys and sells big parcels all over the city. It’s exhausting, but I love it.”
My husband was absolute crap where small talk was concerned, so I jumped in and asked questions, and everyone, in my experience, loved talking about themselves if they knew, for certain, that the other person was actively listening and truly cared. Since I liked nothing more than learning about people, she had a better time chatting with me than she did checking out my date.
The meal was catered, which was nice, and we sat out on the palatial patio that looked out toward the pool house and tennis courts. I enjoyed listening to Preston explain how he and Sam had played football together in high school. He went on and on about all the girls that Sam had all over him all the time.
“That was a long time ago,” Sam said tightly, and I patted his knee.
When Meg asked what I did, I explained about the small firm I ran with others. “We do a lot of branding and work mostly for larger companies these days.”
“You run a graphic design house, then?”
“Right.”
“So you and Jory probably know a lot of the same people,” Preston suggested to his wife.
“Not quite, Pres,” she told him, sounding a bit high-handed, but I was used to that. Until you saw our client list of law firms, architectural firms, private security firms—actually a new one of those just last week, right in Oak Park where I lived—and many others, Harvest Design didn’t sound that impressive. “I’m the senior vice president in charge of corporate publicity at Ebersol and Blunt.”
“Oh,” I said, as it was a company I’d heard of only because Hannah had mentioned them. “My daughter has done events with your firm.”
“Pardon?” Meg said, and it was almost terse, as though she were affronted. She’d turned away from me, giving her attention to others, before I’d answered.
Glancing around, I realized that all eyes were on me, Meg’s gaze was especially laser focused on my face. I cleared my throat. “My daughter has headed up some corporate events with your company. I think she works with––” I had to think. “—Susan something.”
“Susan Beatty?”
“Isn’t that your boss?” Preston asked his wife.
“Beatty. Yes,” I said, smiling.
“And your daughter knows Susan and works with her?”
“She’s in charge of a lot of fundraisers,” I told her. “She’s actually at one right now.”
There was a momentary silence, only the sound of the breeze.
“Wait,” she announced, trying, I could tell, to put things together. She leaned back in her chair, her eyes darting from me to Sam and then back to me. “Hannah Kage is your daughter?”
“She is,” Sam replied, smiling fondly.
Meg leaned forward, hand over her heart, her entire demeanor changing in seconds. I went from nothing, to nobody, to someone special, based on my perfect daughter. “Oh my goodness, you’re kidding me.”