Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
A few moments later, she smiles and rolls her chair back. “That sounds great. All a good sandwich really needs is deli meat and maybe something fresh. I’ve never understood people who want to add all sorts of other stuff. The only acceptable addition is cheese.”
I chuckle. “Agreed. We’d better hurry, though. If Dillon gets down there first, there might not be any left by the time we get there.”
She stands up, walking around her desk and following me downstairs. Mercifully, we beat Dillon and Chance to the kitchen, but I can hear the rhythmic thump of fists on the punching bag in the gym below, so I assume Chance has decided to fit in a workout before lunch.
Dillon must’ve fallen into a virtual rabbit hole, but he’ll be down soon enough.
A tray of sandwiches sits on the center island in the kitchen, a jug of lemonade and some glasses beside it. Roxie glances at me as we walk in, one eyebrow arching. “Is that homemade?”
“The lemonade?” I guess, then shrug. “Yeah, it should be. Chance doesn’t do much cooking, but he takes hydration pretty seriously. That’s why the fridge is always stocked with cold water and the bar’s inventory looks better than what they’ve got at The Uncorked Cowboy.”
“I still can’t believe the place is actually called that,” she mutters as I hand her a plate. “This looks delicious.”
Roxie sits cross-legged on the couch in the living room after we dish up, her plate balanced on her knees. She’s gorgeous, framed by golden sunlight shining through the glass walls, her feet bare. The super-casual style we’ve adopted for work has already rubbed off on her. Her hair is thrown up in a messy ponytail, and she wears barely any makeup on her face.
As I sit down on the other side of the couch, I balance my plate on the armrest, pick up a sandwich, and turn to face her while I eat. It’s been a long time since I’ve been this curious about a woman. She isn’t the type to blurt out her entire life story over dinner, so I’ll have to put in the work to get her to lower that sky-high guard.
I’ve never been afraid of work. I prefer it, even. Earning something always feels better than just having it handed over. With that thought in mind, I lean forward, no phone or screen in sight. Right now, it’s only the two of us, and she has my full attention.
“You mentioned once that you’re working toward a degree in marketing,” I say lightly, not wanting it to sound like I’m prying. “What made you decide on that?”
She chews thoughtfully and swallows before answering. “I like stories. Not just the kind you read, but the kind companies tell through their branding and their ads. It’s just storytelling with a goal attached, but I love how doing it right can convey so much about corporate identity.”
“That’s a damn good way to put it,” I say.
She smiles, quick and bright. “Most people just assume it’s about selling things, but for me, it’s about connection. Figuring out what people need.”
I pause, wondering if she realizes she’s just revealed something real about herself. “Does that mean you like figuring people out?”
Her gaze flicks to mine, then to the window as she lifts a shoulder in a small shrug. “Sometimes.”
“That’s a dangerous skill to have around here.”
“Why’s that?” she asks before taking another bite of her sandwich.
“Because if you start figuring us out, you might realize we’re not as mysterious as we pretend to be.”
Surprised laughter bursts from her. “Somehow, I doubt that.”
I watch her over the rim of my lemonade glass, content with having learned that one thing about her for now. She seems so open about work, about the things she likes and voicing her opinion on everything from our organizational systems to sandwiches, but any time the conversation drifts toward anything personal, or her past in particular, she gracefully sidesteps the questions.
“What do you guys do for marketing?” she asks after she swallows, a furrow appearing between her brows. “I can’t believe I didn’t think to ask before.”
“You’ve had an eventful few days. No one could blame you for not thinking about it before. And besides, in our line of work, it’s more word-of-mouth anyway.”
She nods slowly. “That makes sense, but if there’s ever anything I can do, just let me know. It doesn’t have to be an Instagram campaign or anything to do with social media. I’m sure I can get creative with the right platforms, whatever they might be.”
“I’m sure you could.” Something tells me this girl is resourceful. “At this point, we’re barely keeping up with the clients we already have, but when it inevitably slows down, we’ll talk about it.”
Assuming you’re around for that long.
I still don’t know her story, but she comes with only a duffel and a backpack, and we’ve seen the meager amount of groceries back at the Morrison cabin. It doesn’t look like she’s here for long.