Total pages in book: 180
Estimated words: 176012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 880(@200wpm)___ 704(@250wpm)___ 587(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 176012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 880(@200wpm)___ 704(@250wpm)___ 587(@300wpm)
I breathe out a laugh. And for just a second, I feel like I’m really home. I remember those summer days. Popsicles, crickets buzzing, and the smell of hot grass and chlorine. I’d always find her in the park or the cemetery, somewhere quiet where she could ride her bike.
Who do her brothers send to keep an eye on her now?
I push the thought away, not liking the irritation climbing the back of my neck. It was always my job.
My eyes drop to her lips, and she parts them, inhaling a quick breath.
“So…” She clears her throat and swallows. “Um, Jax told me last night that you’re back to put your mother’s house on the market,” she adds. “I was sad when she decided to move to Arizona. But I understood.” She looks back out the shutters. “Not much here for her.”
No.
Not much here. No family. No grandkids. After I left eight years ago, I never came back. I bought my mom tickets to come see me, and I met her in various cities I might’ve been working, but…
No sense keeping a house for just one person. She’s happy out West. She has friends, a community, and manageable weather.
A timer goes off, and Quinn spins around, returning to the kitchen.
“With all of our technology,” she calls out behind her as I close the shutters again, “it seems you should’ve been able to handle everything from Dubai.”
I watch her remove a pan of croissants and slide in another, setting the timer again.
I wouldn’t have had to come back if my mother hadn’t purposely left my father’s things in the house. If I didn’t want them trashed, I had to come back for them.
I’m not going to tell Quinn that, though. I don’t want her to know that I wouldn’t have returned if I didn’t have to. I would’ve continued to act like they all didn’t exist because it was the only way to not miss them so much.
I veer around her worktable and snatch my cap off her head. “Aren’t you glad I’m back, though?”
“Hey!” Her hair comes tumbling down in front of her eyes.
I work on resizing it for my head. “You should be wearing a hair net anyway,” I tell her.
“But…”
I pluck a hot croissant off her pan. “Gotta go.”
“Hey!” she barks louder this time. “That’s two sixty-five.”
I pull apart the pastry and take a huge bite. “For flour and water?” I tease, knowing croissants are mostly butter.
She doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s cheaper than Starbucks.”
She has her hands on her hips, and I almost can’t help but smile again. It’s like old times.
The savory, soft texture damn near melts on my tongue. “It’s really good.”
I start to leave, hearing her behind me. “What about my compass?”
“I’ll see you later.”
I don’t know why I just don’t tell her that she can have it back. A deal is a deal.
But I’m not ready. I’ve carried it with me every day for eight years. I never leave my apartment without it, much less the country.
I unlock and push through the back door, stepping into the alley before she can yell at me more.
“Good morning,” Isobel chirps, pushing her rectangular frames up the bridge of her nose.
I stand in front of the kitchen counter, tightening my tie as I glance at my assistant on the laptop screen. “Good evening,” I reply since it’s the end of day in Dubai where she is. “Shoot.”
She sets a file aside and looks at the screen, but not at me, as she reads away. “Al Mazrouei & Rao approved the suggested changes, but want a tour of the progress so far,” she tells me. “I scheduled them to meet you at the site on Monday.”
I nod, grabbing my suit coat. “I’ll be back.”
“It’s in your calendar.” She fingers a pen as she continues. “Also, Generation Industries is on board for the plumbing and mechanical for the Stewart multi-use.”
“Send me—”
“I already got with legal and finalized the contract,” she says. “The client has it.”
A text rolls in, and I pick up my phone.
Gym tonight? Lance asks.
“Julia Khan”—Isobel goes on—“called about her son again.” She looks at me point-blank. “Are you absolutely sure you wouldn’t like an intern?”
I start tapping out a reply to my friend. “I am absolutely sure you would like an intern,” I retort.
Eight PM, I tell him.
My assistant tsks. “I resent that. I was only aiming to help by adding to his view count.”
I throw her a smirk as I set my cell down, both of us remembering her being very interested in his social media when we first received his résumé.
Isobel Chen has worked for me the past five years, and while she’s impressive on paper—born in Shanghai, educated in Britain, speaks five languages, well-traveled…—I was nervous about being a single man and hiring a woman. I didn’t want her getting any ideas.