Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 101840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
I swallowed a bite of omelette before answering. “I thought you went over the room assignments with Concetta.”
“I did. And she said things like, ‘The Hartmanns are in the yellow suite,’ and, ‘Saleem and his wife prefer a view of the garden.’” Jett rolled his eyes. “I guess I didn’t catch on to the fact that ‘the Nandas’ referred to a famous spiritual leader.”
I shrugged. “I told you it was a gathering of powerful people.”
He waited for me to say more, but I didn’t. He’d see soon enough who else was coming.
And now that I thought about it, it was probably for the best that he didn’t know too much in advance.
While I didn’t think Jett would betray the NDA he’d signed with me, I’d be stupid not to remember that he was a player who’d probably learned to manipulate others for his own survival.
His entire career was about making men like me feel wanted. Feel seen and understood. That was how he got paid.
This was a job to him.
I was a job to him.
The reminder soured my mood, but it was necessary.
“I have a lot of calls today,” I said, shoving another bite of food in my mouth. “You’ll need to find a way to entertain yourself.”
Jett frowned. “I can help with your calls, if you want. Just put me to work.”
I shook my head once. “These are private calls. If you can’t amuse yourself, ask Concetta what help she needs for the house party.”
As I took a sip of coffee and gazed out at the water in the distance, I felt his eyes on me. I knew he was trying to figure out the reason for my abrupt mood change.
No explanations necessary, I reminded myself.
“Sure,” Jett finally said, a sliver of annoyance clear in his sticky-sweet tone. “I mean, of course, sir. Whatever you say, sir.”
I continued to eat for another minute, the silence uncomfortable as fuck. My skin prickled with awareness. Of how he sat, how he moved. Every small sound of his breathing.
He leaned forward, and it took all my self-control not to tilt in his direction. Instead, I looked out at the water again. The endless stretch of impossible blue, several shades darker than Jett’s eyes.
My skin felt like it was hooked up to an electric wire, the current so low I could barely tell it was there without stretching the limits of hyperawareness.
Jett stood abruptly and turned to push in his chair. I snuck a look at him, wondering what kind of underwear he could possibly be wearing with those pants. They were virtually transparent. The shape of his legs could be seen through the airy material.
His feet were surprisingly bare. The linen pooled around them and dragged on the floor a little. When he turned back to me, my eyes went to the loose drawstring at his waist.
He stepped closer and studied me for a moment. Maybe I’d been wrong about his eyes. They seemed the exact color of the Mediterranean at the moment.
Anger suited him.
“Come find me if you have need of me, Mr. Maris.”
And then he turned and walked away, his lazy gait doing criminal things to his ass in those pants.
It was clear he wasn’t happy.
But he was here on my terms. And he was an employee.
Anything else would be impossible.
Work kept me busy for the next several hours. A video conference with investors in Dubai. Email responses to the head of R&D, an official signature on a letter to the trade secretary of Portugal, and a call with the finance team to discuss expansion funding. Through it all, I was vaguely aware of gardeners working outside. The open doors to my balcony framed a view of the pool terrace and the sea beyond it, but to the left were also views of and a short staircase down to my grandmother’s favorite garden.
It wasn’t until everyone on the finance call except my sister hung up that I realized one of the men working outside my room was Jett.
He’d changed out of the linen pants and into a pair of running shorts and shoes. A dark tank exposed his shoulders to the sun, and his skin carried the sheen of sweat. The gardener he was chatting with seemed oblivious to the sheer temptation Jett Davis presented.
“Sure you can’t come with me? Jasmine keeps asking me about you.”
I tried to focus on what my sister was saying. “Come with you to the Caymans? No. I’m in Italy. I thought I told you that.”
“You probably did. I’ve been buried in work.”
I forced myself to look away from the scene in the garden in which Jett had been gathering clippings between making the gardener laugh.
“You’re always buried in work,” I told Celeste.
“Yes, well. There are worse things.”
I hummed in agreement, thinking about the unspoken alternative. Our father hadn’t worked enough. Had played too much. Our mother had never worked at all.