Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
He doesn’t smile back as he slides a temporary badge across the counter. “Return this on your way out.”
Charming fellow.
I take the badge and clip it to my jacket. “Which way?” I ask.
He gestures, sounding thoroughly bored. “West wing. Doors to your left, elevator up two floors. Follow the signs to the executive suite and a receptionist will check you in there.”
“Thank you,” I say, and he responds with a large yawn. I wonder if his demeanor will change when a camera is rolling.
I follow his directions, and my brain starts doing what it always does in places like this—mapping angles, noting potential acoustic problems, envisioning how to pull off an effective wide-angle shot.
On the third floor, I push through a set of heavy mahogany double doors into a carpeted lobby. Behind a desk sits a beautiful woman in a sleek black outfit. She looks efficient, polished, the kind of assistant who could probably run the entire organization if Rowe disappeared for a week.
“Ms. Paxton,” she says as she stands, offering me a bright smile as well as her hand to shake. “I’m Janine. You’re right on time.”
“It’s Juno,” I correct with a wink, because I hate formality. “I very much like my first name better than my last.”
Janine’s lips twitch and she comes around the desk. “It’s a beautiful name, Juno. This way.”
I follow Janine through a maze of offices before she brings me to Rowe’s. His name is in bold lettering on a brass plate.
Patrick Rowe, Team Owner
As we step inside, I take in everything all at once. His desk is dark wood, masculine with severe edges. There’s a separate seating area arranged like it was designed for conversations that end with signatures. I’m stunned to see floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook one of the ice rinks, giving him a view that makes it clear he likes to watch his investments in motion.
The man himself stands at the windows, dark gray suit with no tie and the collar open. His hands are tucked casually in his pockets.
“Patrick,” Janine says. “Juno Paxton is here.”
I’m shocked she calls this multibillionaire powerhouse of a man by his first name and the cynic in me wonders if they’re sleeping together. I brush that thought aside because it’s none of my business, although if that happens to be naturally revealed during filming, well… so be it. It will make the final cut if it’s pertinent.
Patrick Rowe turns as I enter, and his smile is brief but clearly genuine. His tone is warm as he moves my way, walking with the grace of a panther.
The man is undeniably handsome with dark hair threaded with silver and more heavily salted at the temples. His eyes are a vivid blue with laugh lines that make him seem like a mere mortal. I did my homework on him, just as I know he did his on me, and I know he’s never been married and has no kids. His wealth is generational, the sources of which are varied.
“Juno,” he says, as if we’re old friends. He crosses the room and holds out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you in person finally. Zoom meetings somehow don’t always feel as genuine, do they?”
“Mr. Rowe,” I say as we shake. “It’s definitely nice to meet in person.”
“Patrick,” he corrects, as he gestures to the seating area of two low-slung couches facing each other. “Have a seat.”
I glance over my shoulder and note that Janine has melted away, the door closed behind her. When I turn back, I see Patrick giving me a very quick once-over, and he doesn’t try to hide it.
I know what he sees.
I’m an award-winning documentary filmmaker, but I don’t look like it. My long hair is nearly jet black, features elfin. I’m wearing faded jeans with holes at the knees, a black camisole and leather jacket, and black high-heeled ankle boots. He can’t see the tattoo on my shoulder, but my nose and eyebrow piercings are obvious. I’m dressed like the type of person he might cross the street to avoid walking past on any given day.
Because he studied my appearance in that brief glance, I can’t help but poke at him a bit. “I hope you don’t expect me to wear business suits during this project.”
To my surprise, Patrick’s head tips back and he gives a hearty laugh. He takes the couch opposite me, crossing one leg over the other and draping an arm over the back. “Not at all. I like your vibe.”
“Good to know, because I dress for comfort most days.” I lift a leg with my spiky boot. “This is my dressed-up look.”
“Oh, not true, Juno. I’ve seen pictures of you in formal gowns at awards shows.”
“Well, I’d wear jeans to those things if they’d let me.” I look around his office, and it reeks of luxury, which I have nothing against. If you got it, flaunt it. My eyes come back to him. “This facility is pretty amazing from what I’ve seen.”