Chapter 3
I stand facing the bar. I haven’t moved a muscle.
I couldn’t bring myself to call him back over to continue arguing.
My shirt is ruined. How am I supposed to make a good first impression on the owners for my new job at Swift Property Management?
Even better, I smell like bourbon. The last thing I need is to smell like alcohol.
It’s bad enough my parents are known for being the town drunks, but apparently people think it’s hereditary and wrote me off a long time ago.
Me and my sister have never been Isabelle and Delilah.
Instead, we’ve always been reduced to Ivy and Brad Tate’s useless offspring.
I scurry to the nearest bathroom to clean myself up but think better of it just as I go to push open the door.
I don’t want anyone walking in and seeing me like this.
I need to find somewhere more private. Feeling awkward as hell, I stay close to the edge of the room and search for a staff bathroom.
Relief eases the tension in my shoulders as I find the exact door I was hoping for, and I enter the bathroom and walk up to the mirror.
Yep, just as I suspected. My shirt is ruined.
I'm angry with myself that I'm bothered that this ugly shirt is dirty.
But this ugly shirt is the nicest, most business-like shirt I own, and tonight is a big night.
I knew all the other people would be dressed up, and it was disheartening and embarrassing enough to put this outfit on this evening.
As usual, I'm pissed off by circumstances I can't change.
I’ve never been inside somewhere this nice.
My passport stamps consist of the trailer park, public school, shitty apartments around Denver—and look at that—the trailer park again.
My stomach churns from embarrassment, I don’t belong in a place like this.
The only reason a person like me should be in the Cascade is as a server or custodial staff.
No wonder Reid mistook me for waitstaff.
Why would a Tate be anything but “the help”?
I chastise myself for the self-deprecating thoughts.
Taking this job is the best choice I’ve ever made, and I'm going to make the most of my second chance.
I do my best to clean the bourbon from my shirt and dry it under the hand dryer. Thank god no one has come in and seen me in my bra. Accepting that it’s as good as it’s going to get, I button up my shirt, tuck it back in, and smooth my hair.
I return to the grand ballroom determined not to let one asshole ruin my entire night.
One very hot asshole who happens to be the owners’ son.
I guess I can’t blame Reid for thinking I was working the event.
It’s not like I’m in a cocktail dress and heels like the rest of the women here.
Embarrassment floods through me again and I bring my hands to my warm cheeks.
I despise my blush response. Any intense emotion and my face lights up like a Christmas tree. So, I end up looking foolish and childish even if I'm flaming mad.
I find my table quickly and sit quietly waiting for Mr. Andersen to make his opening remarks.
My table companions get a tight smile, but I don’t engage in conversation.
I straighten my spine as a waiter reaches around me and places a five-star dinner in front of me.
I'm starving. I was too nervous to eat all day, and this incredible food is about to disappear. I keep my ears trained on the conversations around me while I dig into my meal. Mr. Andersen’s speech is lovely, pride filling his voice at the company’s successful year.
There’s not a dry eye in the room when he mentions the absence of their youngest son, Sam.
Delilah called me a few months ago to tell me Sam had passed away.
My heart broke for their family, and I desperately wanted to reach out to Reid to see how he was holding up.
But why would a complete stranger know so much about his family and intrude on his grief?
Instead, we pooled our money and sent flowers to the Andersens and to Sam’s widow, Quincy.
She’s Connor’s older sister, so we knew her far better than we did Sam.
Despite my fury from his dickish behavior tonight, I find myself searching the crowd for Reid to see if he’s ok.
After my plate is cleared, I look around for Mrs. Andersen so I can reintroduce myself to her and meet Mr. Andersen. They're standing on the edge of the dance floor chatting with their oldest son, James, so I make my way over to them.
As I approach, I catch Mrs. Andersen’s eye, and she squeals with delight and flings out her arms to part through her son and husband to get to me and wraps me in a warm hug.
Stepping back but holding me by the shoulders, she coos, “Honey, I'm so glad you were able to come on such short notice! We host this event every year to celebrate our amazing employees. And you’re officially part of the family because I shuffled your paperwork off to human resources before I left the office this evening.”
She releases me from her hold and ushers me forward by the small of my back. We turn to face Mr. Andersen and James and make our introductions. Both men are fitted in tailored suits hanging over dress cowboy boots, shined within an inch of their life. Mr. Andersen has on a gorgeous patina bolo tie.
“Yes, welcome to the team, Isabelle, I trust you'll be a valued member of the company. My Cecelia has been telling me for years we need to refresh some of the properties, and what my wife wants, she gets. So, you better deliver.” He winks at me, so I take his comment in jest and assure him I will.
“Thank you so much for this opportunity, Mr. and Mrs. Andersen. I won’t let you down,” I promise.
“Please, darling, Cecelia and Walter, none of this Mr. and Mrs. business," Cecelia insists.
Conversation moves to other topics when James moves to clap someone on the shoulder. Reid Andersen. The Reid Andersen who knocked me over and spilled his drink on me and then proceeded to be a complete tool bag about it. Yea him.
My eyes frantically take in his every detail.
His hazelnut-colored wavy hair is tousled around his face, not quite as long as mine, just brushing his jawline.
How do men manage to run a hand through their hair and look like a Greek god when women work tirelessly to even come close?
Furrowed brows shadow beautiful hazel eyes.
I bet they're the kind that change color based on his mood or surroundings, because by the bar I swear they were brown, but now I see streaks of green and shimmers of gold interwoven with the rich brown. He has an unkempt full beard, and his nostrils are flared in annoyance at his brother’s jostling.
He's a bit taller than me. I’d give him six feet at least. I’m 5’9”, so sometimes it’s nice to be with people taller than me, instead of feeling like I tower over everyone.
I used to be self-conscious about my height, but once high school rolled around, it was the least of my concerns considering what people were saying about me.
His broad shoulders are forced into an ill-fitting black suit jacket—he must have bulked up since the last time he wore it.
A white dress shirt is tucked into equally ill-fitting black suit pants, hanging over cowboy boots.
Those boots have seen work. Let me tell you, those aren't dress boots.
I halt my perusal and drop my eyes to avoid his gaze.
“Reid, perfect timing!” Cecelia chimes. “I want you to meet your new counterpart, Isabelle Tate! She's taking over as our new customer experience manager and she’s going to be traveling with you this winter to begin refreshing the properties. Isn’t that wonderful?”
I dare a glance up at Reid and he looks ambivalent. A few irritated slow blinks later, James elbows Reid in the side as Cecelia says, “Oh don’t mind him, he's a grumpy Gus.”
I must be slow to process because it hits me.
Shit, fuck, fucking shit! I have to work in close proximity with Reid Andersen.
He looks like he'd rather do anything other than breathe the same air as me.
I might as well invest in a portable fan and an ice roller for my face because I'm going to be blushing and sweating profusely all winter.
The man is hot. Capital H, capital A, capital W, capital T, HAWT.
Every girl in town knows the Andersen boys. It doesn’t matter if you’re eight or eighty, if you have eyes and any sense in your head, you can see that they're smoking hot. Even Walter is still hot, and he’s got to be pushing sixty. He’s got that whole silver fox thing going for him.
Good thing Reid is a certified dick-weasel because his personality thankfully cancels out his good looks. I might just survive the winter if I can keep hating him.