Chapter 19
Garrett
This is bad.
Choosing to meet Angela today—the anniversary of the first worst day of my life—was risky in the first place.
I knew that and fooled myself into thinking it wouldn’t matter.
But the minute I pulled up to the construction site and saw her standing there, I realized I was in trouble.
Her fiery hair caught in the wind. A pair of dress slacks hugged her ass, and a white blouse highlighted her perfect tits.
The wind whipped the thin fabric against her chest, perking her nipples under the hint of a white lace bra.
Fucking white lace.
I’d guess she dressed like that to taunt me, but Angela doesn’t play mind games. That’s more of a Melinda move.
Just like going to a bar with two guys while her boyfriend is overseas is more of a Melinda move.
One of Mom’s favorite principles is that we become an amalgamation of the people around us.
If we surround ourselves with goodness, we’ll come to expect it.
And, apparently, if you surround yourself with people like Melinda, you’ll come to expect the worst out of everyone.
Compared to The Ex-Future Mrs. Cooper, Angela’s optimism, her view of the world, it’s a breath of fresh air. In a way, she reminds me of home—of Charlie and Connor, of Dad and Mom.
I like who I am when I’m with her.
And that scares me to death. I don’t do relationships for a reason. I can’t stand being vulnerable. Letting someone in guarantees I’ll end up hurt when I inevitably lose them.
But worse than that, what if the deal falls through because I’m being stupid? I mixed business with pleasure once and it nearly ruined me. What kind of fool would try it again?
What a disaster. I tangled things up with that phone call.
All I can think about is seeing her naked.
I know what she sounds like when she comes, and now I want to know what she looks like.
I want my hands on her. I need to touch her.
To taste her. To pin her to a bed and worship her body the way she deserves.
And now, after just twenty minutes staring at a hole in the ground so we can appreciate “the magic,” we’re supposed to check in at the hotel one town over and that’s that? We’ll sign some contracts, I’ll fly back to Wildrose and she’ll head home, and we’re just business from this point forward?
That should work for me.
It should.
It really fucking should.
But it won’t.
I lean on the hood of my rental, almost hating myself for what I’m about to do. “You wanna grab something to eat? There’s this restaurant a few miles from here. Harrison’s. I hear it’s pretty good.”
My therapist would say I’m distracting myself from bad memories on this shitshow of a day, but she’d be wrong. I’m choosing to spend time with someone despite the memories. Not because of them.
Angela studies me for a long time, eyes searching—questioning—as she chews her bottom lip. “This getting of something to eat,” she says with a quirk of her head, “are we talking business or pleasure, here?”
“Business, obviously. You’re officially the only person I know in this state, and I hate eating alone. We can go over the contracts. Maybe forward them to your lawyers if everything looks solid to you.”
“Right. I see.” She looks away, a flash of disappointment in her eyes. “Then sure. Yeah. Dinner sounds great. I heard about Harrison’s when we first scoped this location. Been wanting to check out the menu ever since.”
“Wonderful. I’ll lead.” With a grunt of frustration, I push off the car and yank open the driver’s door.
It shouldn’t be like this. If it wasn’t for the fact that I can’t get enough of Ms. Angela Hutton, we’d drive back to the hotel, sign some papers, and move the fuck on. This is different.
Because of her.
I haven’t felt so off my game since everything blew up with Elizabeth.
“Great.” Angela gives me a funny look as she passes me on the way to her car. “I’ll meet you there.”
I use the drive to Harrison’s to get myself under control.
This thing between us? We’ll make it work somehow or another.
I'll look at her like I would any other person I’m doing business with, and she’ll do the same.
It doesn't matter how beautiful she is. Or how funny she is. Or how much her stupid positive outlook makes me want to forget that hope is a dangerous, fickle beast. It doesn’t matter how much she aggravates me or how much it drives me crazy to be near her.
I will look at her as Angela Hutton—future owner of The Hutton Hotel.
Not Dirty Angel. Not Pencil Skirt Angel. Not Hot Phone Sex Angel.
She's a colleague.
And that's the end of that.
We arrive at Harrison’s without issue and find two parking spots beside each other. Angela shuts her car door and stretches, the evening sun glinting in her hair as she closes her eyes and reaches for the sky.
Fuck, she’s hot. I can still hear her moans in my ear, those sweet gasps—
She catches me staring, lifting an eyebrow while a secretive smile plays across her mouth. So much for treating her like any other colleague.
“You ready?” she asks, looking as uncertain as I feel. She doesn’t think we can be professional either, which makes me all the more determined to pull it off.
“Let's do this.” I fight the urge to put my hand on her back instead of walking calmly beside her. When we arrive at the front door, I pull it open, gesturing for her to enter. The atmosphere is sophisticated, and the hostess greets us with a polished smile.
“Two this evening?”
I nod. “We'd like a table with a view of the ocean, if that’s possible.”
“Right this way, sir.”
I gesture for Angela to walk in front of me.
As she strides ahead, my gaze lands on her luscious hips, swaying with each of her steps.
I imagine my hands gripping her ass as she rides me, her lips parted, her tits bouncing.
She glances over her shoulder and catches me looking, a twinkle settling into her eyes.
She likes that I like looking at her.
Good. Because I couldn’t stop if I tried.