Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 137(@200wpm)___ 110(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
The harsh vibration of my phone dancing against the glass and brass coffee table sends a violent jolt straight to my nervous system. I leap out of my skin, gasping as a cold flood of adrenaline surges straight to the pit of my stomach. My eyes snap to the table. The screen lights up, flashing a name that makes me gasp.
Vik. Viktor Orlov, my boss.
And as my scattered, foggy memories from two night ago aggressively remind me, the best friend of one Dante Lombardi—the man whose ring is currently on my ring finger.
“Oh God.” I tremble, catching my bottom lip between my teeth, worrying the soft skin, biting down hard enough that I can taste the faint metallic tang of iron. I’m panicking, spiraling out of control, and suffocating.
He knows. He has to know. Dante probably called him the second he realized I was gone. Vik is going to fire me now. No, worse, he’s going to demand to know why his executive assistant flew to Vegas for a conference only to come back legally bound to a man who looks like he owns half the West Coast and moves with lethal precision in a six-figure tailored suit. I’m going to lose my career, my reputation, and my sanity. All because I had one too many glasses of champagne and let a devilish smirk destroy my judgment.
The phone vibrates for a third time, on the brink of going to voicemail. I grit my teeth, wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans, reach out, and swipe at the screen.
“Hi, Vik.” I force my voice into an octave that sounds halfway professional, despite the fact that my nerves are a frazzled mess.
“Alex.” Vik’s deep measure voice cuts through the speaker. “I was beginning to think you lost your phone.”
“No, sorry, I was putting my luggage away,” I lie smoothly, my grip tightening around the phone. “What’s up?” I ask. While Vik may be married to my best friend, I don’t see him cutting me any slack, and I’m sure a lecture along with a termination speech is on the tip of his tongue.
“Following up on the Vegas convention. Did you manage to secure the deal before you left?” His tone is casual, laced with his businesslike efficiency.
“Yes.” I move to my laptop on the kitchen table. Maybe I forgot to send him the contract. Surely, it’s not in my drafts. I might have had one killer hangover, but I powered through, went over everything before meeting Dante in the bar, and sent off the email.
“Good. Send it over,” he says with a gruffness while rustling some papers on the other end of the line.
“Doing so now. I must have forgotten to hit Send before I got on the plane.” I go through the paces of powering my laptop up and waiting for it to come to life. The convention feels like it happened a decade ago, in a completely different lifetime. “There it is. I think you’ll be happy with the terms I negotiated. Though, he wouldn’t budge on the timeline.” I’m Alexandria Holland: organized, ambitious, and decidedly single.
“Good work,” Vik says, sounding genuinely pleased. “And precisely why I sent you.” A wave of dizzying relief washes over me and I’m able to slink back to my chair. Vik doesn’t know. Dante hasn’t told him yet.
“I also wanted to make sure you made it back to Seattle safely,” he adds, his voice softening into friendly concern. Romy’s doing, I’m sure.
“I’m back safe and sound. You know how Vegas is. It’s go, go, go, and well, now, I’m exhausted.” A nervous chuckle escapes my throat.
“I do. Get some rest Alex. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks, Vik. See you then.” The line goes dead. I lower my phone, letting my arm drop to my side, and let out a long, ragged exhale.
He doesn’t know. My job is safe. For now.
I rest my head against the high backrest and stare up at the white ceiling. The relief is short-lived, quickly swallowed up by the darker, more chaotic storm brewing in my mind. I’m still pulling at the frayed threads of my memory, desperately trying to reconstruct the timeline of my downfall.
I remember the convention floor.
I remember the loud, pulsing hotel lounge afterward.
And then… I remember him.
Dante Lombardi.
The realization makes me want to scream into a pillow. I married a man, signed a legal document, and spent the night wrapped in his arms. Since coming home, fragments of the night have hit me in smoldering hot flashes. I remember the way he leaned over me, my back to the mattress, his palm planted beside my head, as his broad shoulders crowded me in. His dark amber eyes skating a path up my naked body and his nostrils flaring at the sight.
And that’s where the memory of the night ends.