What's home, if not the first place you flee from? What's love, if not that blazing, unexplainable feeling born from the ashes of hate?
Reputable for her appeal, servility, and obsession with cartoons, Alaina is a workaholic immigrant doctor who's s...
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Tate McRae - feel like shit.
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THE RIDE IS A SLOW BOIL—a cocktail of anger and irritation simmering beneath my skin, threatening to erupt. My feet tap relentlessly against the plush carpet of Mr. Ash's expensive car, defying his occasional glances in the rearview mirror. I'm trying to distract myself, to shove down that thought I swore I'd buried...but it's like an itch I can't scratch. Persistent. Maddening.
We arrive at the fancy restaurant in about twenty minutes.
At the entrance, I notice how the doorman lights up when he sees him. His smile is more than polite—it's reverent. Deferential. Mr. Ash doesn't just dine here. He owns this place.
The doorman even has the nerve to wink at me as I stomp through the revolving doors, steam practically jetting from my nostrils. But I don't indulge him. Mr. Ash has a knack for misreading everything, and I won't hand him another misinterpretation on a silver platter.
So why the mood? Oh, you really want to know? I'll tell you—I forgot my laptop. In my mad scramble to keep up with Mr. Ash, I left behind the one thing that held my carefully scripted notes for this meeting. All of them—gone. And now I'm here, unarmed and unprepared.
If this deal tanks, it's on me.
But let's not forget...it's also his fault. Mr. Ash is the reason I'm standing on the edge of failure.
I follow him in, trailing behind like a disgruntled Renfield. I'm so vexed I start envisioning petty chaos—like swiping that lady's lasagna and shoving it right into his smug face. Cheese is notoriously hard to wash out of hair. Maybe it would humor him—make him smile for once.
Jesus, Ina. Get a grip.
I inhale sharply, willing myself to focus. I have to salvage this. I'll regurgitate whatever I remember about Ash Enterprises and hope it sticks. Throw in a charming "You wouldn't want to miss that, would you, sir?" and pray it lands.
Mr. Ash finds the client with a wordless call—the kind of call where nothing is said, but everything's understood. He leads us to a private booth tucked behind lavish, reddish-brown curtains. A sanctuary of luxury. Candles flicker on the table, casting amber light across burgundy designer sofas. An elegant sconce dangles above, diffusing the glow into something soft and expensive. The air hums with wealth.
Two flutes of champagne wait at the table. Our guest has already arrived.
Is this...a date? Could Mr. Ash be courting Mr. Reid's daughter? And I, his unfortunate assistant, dragged here to suffer through flirtation and faux professionalism?
I'd rather bathe my eyes in hot chilli.
Then again, the man wouldn't know how to flirt if it hit him in the face. He's the type to strip off his shirt and ask about virginity over tea with your mother. More caveman than Casanova. He probably prefers older women who've lost their vocal cords so he doesn't have to endure the sound of them.
