Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56591 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56591 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
I take my West Coast call, then do my daily calls to my foremen to check on them.
An hour later, there’s a knock at the door. “Come in,” I say, my voice sterner than I’d like. Sometimes I wonder if my PR persona really is a show I put on… or a part of me that’s very real, and I don’t want to face it.
The door opens slowly. Izzy. She’s wearing black pants today, hugging her thick, beautiful legs. I try to push that thought away and instead focus on her face. She’s got her hair up in a loose ballerina bun with a few wisps escaping, giving her an ethereal look, a dainty necklace glinting around her neck, and there I go again, hyper-focusing on her.
“Hi, si… Dominic,” she says, correcting the sir she was about to offer.
She closes the office door behind her as if it’s a reflex. Or does she want us alone together? I remember what she texted last night, about how I don’t look as if I slack in the gym. Translation: I’m muscular.
My father’s voice warns me sternly, telling me not to go down this road, not to allow my thoughts to spiral and make a slave of my heart. And other places.
“Izzy,” I say after a pause that lasts a little too long.
She glances over her shoulder. Like she’s just realized she shut it.
“Can I help you?” I ask, trying to sound distant and uninterested.
A smile spreads across her face. She walks to my desk and places a manila envelope down. “Ethan asked me to deliver these. Projections for the housing project.”
I wave a hand. “Summarize them.”
For a beat, she just looks at me with owlish eyes. She’s probably wondering if I’m trying to keep her here. Or perhaps that’s just me projecting. I want to keep her here, even if I can’t acknowledge it to anybody else. Not even myself fully.
I enjoy being around her. Does it need to be more complicated than that?
She touches the back of the opposite chair, then hesitates. She’s painted her nails alternating colors, red and pink, like lipstick and smears of blood. Beauty and morbidity side by side. It seems fitting.
“Sit,” I tell her when she hesitates.
I’ve spent all this time trying to seem like a hard ass, at least publicly, but it somehow bothers me when the act works on this woman.
“From one perspective, it’s brilliant,” she says, her smile returning. It lights up my chest, and I don’t give a damn if that’s a cliché. “I can’t imagine most construction companies put in this much thought, right? Comparing the incomes of the residents in the area with their current rent prices, working all the angles so you can get yours as low as possible.”
A grin touches my lips. I don’t even try to fight it. “No one in this city does what we do here,” I tell her. “It’s the reason I’ve got an office here and not in some sparkling high-rise in the financial district. But you mentioned there might be another perspective?”
“Well… how are you going to make a profit?” she says.
“I’m not,” I reply. “Not on this job, anyway.”
“Oh,” she says, her shoulders seeming to droop. Was she nervous about coming in here?
“I make more on other projects, especially commercial ones. You never need to be concerned if our low-income projects don’t seem financially appealing. That’s not a failure on your part, Izzy. Nor mine. Nor anybody’s. The failure is my competitors’ thinking they need to bleed every single tenant dry until there’s nothing left.”
I stop when I realize I’ve climbed to my feet. My chest is rising and falling rapidly. This fervor is always inside me, but I can usually keep it tucked safely away. She’s looking up at me with a mixture of awe and trepidation on her angelic face.
Angelic. Fucking angelic?
“That’s impressive,” she says. “Very, actually, sir.”
There she goes with the sir again.
“Is there anything else?” I ask, too blunt.
“No,” she murmurs, standing.
When she turns away, I try with every fiber of my being to look anywhere but at her wide hips and thick ass in those tight-fitting pants. But it’s inappropriate and unstoppable.
Once she’s gone, I grip the edge of the desk and focus on slowing my breathing down. I haven’t been this fervent in years, and that had nothing to do with women. That was the fire of ambition, to rise high, to make money, to do some good in the world after Sebastian Goodfellow twisted us all up.
I walk through the scenario in my head. Let’s say I let myself indulge in whatever this is. Give in to the fire blazing suddenly and inexplicably inside. Then I either marry this beautiful stranger or risk breaking up and causing a scandal for the company. That could affect my relationship with some of my associates. My entire image is built around cold, efficient pragmatism.