Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80652 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“Oh.” Tom lives on the opposite side of the city and would surely have sent my assistant or an intern to drop my things off, but I could see him making a personal appearance if he’s trying to persuade me to come back. “All right. Tell him I’ll be down in a sec.”
I shuffle to the hall bath, splash water on my face, and run a brush through my hair before stepping into a pair of satin house slippers and heading to the lobby of our complex. Only the instant I step out of the stairwell, I find it isn’t Tom waiting for me with a box of my things.
It’s West.
My heart stops beating for a fraction of a second, and every last bit of oxygen exits my lungs. While the times I’ve come face to face with this man have been few and far between, it’s nothing compared to finding him here, in my apartment lobby, eyes homed in on me, with zero warning.
Not only that, but he’s looking unusually casual in his navy slacks and a white button-down oxford cuffed at his elbows. And his hair—usually nary a strand out of place—is mussed, as if he’s been running his hands through it all day.
Only West Maxwell can be having an off day and manage to look ten times sexier.
Squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin, I peel my shock off the floor and manage a simple “What are you doing here?”
“Came to drop off your things,” he says, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Thought we could have a chat while I’m here.”
The main building doors swing open, and the sullen widow from 2B ambles toward the mailbox center, grocery bags in tow and keys jangling. Within seconds, another resident strolls in, yapping on the phone about getting tickets for the next Mets game.
“If this is about my article,” I say, “I stand by what I wrote. And if you’re trying to get me to come back, my mind’s already made up.”
“This is absolutely about your article.” His aqua irises glint as he studies me. “And don’t worry—I wouldn’t dream of employing you again.”
Humbled yet very much confused, I cross my arms. “Okay, then say what you came here to say.”
The woman from 2B loads up her bags and a large stack of mail, and I grab the stairwell door for her just as a family of six bustles in—strollers, diaper bags, and all. But despite the cramped lobby, West doesn’t budge or divert his attention off me; he stays anchored in the center of it all, making everyone move around him.
A rock in a stream.
“Is there somewhere we can go that’s a bit more”—he flashes a look at the noisy bunch—“private?”
“If you’re asking me to invite you up, the answer is no,” I say without hesitation. “But we can go outside.”
His loaded gaze scans me from head to toe, a reminder I’m not exactly dressed for conversation on a city sidewalk.
A week ago I’d have cared.
Today I couldn’t care less.
West places my box by the stairwell before following me outside. We find a little stretch of walkway beyond the entrance and step off to the side.
“All right,” I say. “I’m all ears.”
West chuffs, speechless for a second. And I can’t help but wonder if there’s anyone in his life who speaks to him like this.
Doubt it.
“Were you aware, Ms. Napier, that I hand selected you for your position out of more than three hundred and sixty-eight applicants?” he asks.
“I . . . no,” I manage. “I was not aware of that.”
“You were the twenty-ninth candidate in my stack,” he says. “As soon as I read your sample article, I shoved the remaining three hundred and thirty-nine in the trash, picked up the phone, and had Tom make you an offer immediately.”
My writer’s ego beams quietly on the inside, basking in his bewildering praise.
“I was quite taken with your candidness, and I could tell from the first line you had the sort of perception most writers only dream of,” he continues. “It was selfish of me to assign you such a flippant column every month, knowing that you were capable of deeper, more moving pieces, but damn if you didn’t make me proud.”
“Until this month.” I blow a puff of air between my lips, refusing to let his flattery unravel me or soften my stance on him.
“Even the best hitters strike out sooner or later,” he says. “Never took you for the delicate-ego type.”
“You gave me less than twenty-four hours to write a completely new column, and you refused to tell me what you didn’t like about the one you accepted a week ago.”
“I didn’t accept it—Miranda did,” he counters. “Between the merger and a personal matter I’m dealing with, I delegated a few things to her that I shouldn’t have. Your article being one of them. And I realize my deadline was extreme, but I had faith in you to pull through. Imagine my dismay when you pulled that little stunt instead.”