Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 96752 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96752 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
See, normally I would be deeply interested in this man’s love life and his obvious flirtation with the Dorsey brothers’ housekeeper. I live for that kind of thing. But all I can see right now is beautiful period-appropriate wallpaper and sconces being ripped out so Reid can turn half the ballroom into a stone wall complete with creeping ivy and night-blooming plants. Because that’s how people live. They grow walls of plants in their mansions. Nothing bad could ever come from that.
The guard is still smiling when he directs me to the last of the bank of elevators. “It’s a private elevator for the upper floors, so I will program it to take you straight to Mr. Dorsey’s penthouse.”
Excellent. Everything is state of the art. I tromp over to the elevator, well aware that I do not look like I belong here. I got Reid’s plans about an hour ago, and I was on a job site. The plans came in late, of course. Likely because he knew damn well I would be angry. He knew how I would react and so he sent me the plans on the Friday before we start shooting. He’s already put in purchase orders. He’ll use that against me. So that’s why I’m wearing jeans and steel-toed boots and look like I’m cosplaying a lumberjack. I watch a woman in a cocktail dress shake her head as I walk by.
The doors to the elevator open as if they know I’m there. Which apparently they do. This whole building is sleek and futuristic and devoid of any warmth and humanity. And the elevator walls are all mirrored, so some poor schmo has to come in and Windex the whole thing seven times a day. There’s a keypad but it only goes to the three highest floors, and the highest one is lit up because this elevator is now my AI overlord. I’m having such a talk with Ivy. Her baby seems like a good idea. I mean what bad could happen by letting an artificial intelligence take over your dating life? Nothing. Not a thing. Except she thinks I’m a near perfect match with a man who wants to gut history. Also, I gendered the AI. What the hell?
Needless to say, I’m a whirling ball of rage by the time those doors slide open, and I find myself in the most elegant foyer ever. It’s like I stepped into Fifty Shades and I’m asking for Mr. Grey to see me now.
Except I’m going to punch Mr. Grey in the balls, and we’ll see who ends up getting a spanking.
“Ms. Harper,” a woman who has to be Aggie says in a perfectly posh British accent. She’s dressed in a sturdy pantsuit, an apron around her like she just walked out of the kitchen. “I’ve informed Mr. Dorsey of your change in plans.” She looks me up and down. “You seem far…angrier than was described.”
“Someone described me?”
“Oh, yes. Jeremiah is excellent at descriptions. He said you were lovely and had a pleasant energy. Where did that go?” Aggie asks with a frown. “Also, you are not up to dress code for this evening’s event.”
“Somehow I don’t think she’s here for this evening’s event,” a deep voice says. Reid steps out looking so deliciously masculine in a three-piece suit he’s taken the jacket off of. It makes him look elegant and lean and predatory, and I wish this man didn’t get my motor running.
I wish he didn’t make me feel the way he does. If this was anyone else, I would sit down and have a long discussion. I wouldn’t stand here feeling my adrenaline shoot sky high. “I’m here because the plans you sent me aren’t happening.”
A brow rises as he looks me over and then turns to Aggie. “Thank you, Aggie. I’ll deal with her from here.”
“Are you sure?” Aggie doesn’t look sure. “She seems to be in a state.”
“I’m not in a state. Unless the state is righteousness because that man is not going to turn my mansion into some cheapo massage parlor.”
Now those blue-green eyes widen. “Excuse me. I think we should take this to my office.”
I’m not going to be further drawn in. We can do this right here. Especially when I have examples of what I’m about to protest. Reid’s foyer looks an awful lot like what he’s proposed for the ballroom. Dark wood floors and a whole wall dominated by a waterfall feature and a bunch of plants that make me think I’ve walked into one of those James Bond sets. You know the ones where the over-the-top bad guy lives and interrogates Bond and the floor opens up to a shark tank below? I could buy that coming from him. “No. What I have to say won’t take long. I need you to understand that you are not turning Banover Place into…” I gesture around. “Whatever this is.”