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How the hell was I supposed to keep my distance from the man when he kept changing the rules and ruining my plans for handling him?
“I don’t need or want your pity,” I informed him, waving a hand in the air to indicate him and the lights, the whole… mood shift he’d initiated. “Don’t be nice now if you’re just going to be a pain in the ass again later.”
Reagan’s cheeks colored. “A pain in the—? Are you—? No.” His hands clenched his tablet so hard his knuckles whitened. “I don’t care how tempting it is to take advantage of my platinum-level job security; I am not going to tell you exactly how much of an ass you’re being, or just how unnecessarily shitty that comment was, or how someone needs a refresher in how to have a truce. It’s not pity, okay? I’m a nice person, and I saw that you were tired. That’s all.”
His eyes blazed with anger—honest, righteous—and I felt like the ass I was. Reagan was eighteen years my junior, but I was the one being childish.
I blew out a breath and rubbed at the center of my forehead. “You’re right. That was shitty. It’s no excuse, but I have a killer headache right now.”
“I know.” Reagan’s face flushed darker. “I’d know even if I couldn’t see it all over your face because… well, your phone volume is quite high, and my hearing is impeccable.”
Meaning he’d heard my entire call, including everything about Brant.
And instead of taking the opportunity to make barbed comments and score points… he’d done me a service.
“Noted,” I said. Then, in a softer voice added, “Thank you.”
He nodded warily. “You’re welcome.”
I nodded, too, and thought vaguely that if McGee walked in right now, he’d think we looked like a pair of giant bobbleheads. Or like a pair of rabid beavers attempting to be civilized.
When I thought of Reagan Wellbridge, I thought of the kid who’d turned heads with hot pink flamingo-print swim trunks at the Wellbridge’s annual Fourth of July Patriots’ Picnic. The prankster who’d taken several boxes of leftover sparklers and used them to spell out a bawdy joke on the lawn at the Honeybridge yacht club the next day despite what had to be a killer hangover. The party boy Peter Pan whose parents alternately spoiled and despaired of him. The man with the sinfully sexy smirk who’d forged a permanent link in my brain between the color aquamarine and the feeling of overwhelming temptation.
And he was all those things… but maybe he was other things besides.
“Seriously, why did you take the job at Pennington Industries?” I demanded, suddenly needing to know.
He chewed his lip for a moment, then gave me a bright grin. “Would you believe it’s because I long to help spread the word of athleisure textile innovation one blog post at a time?”
The snarky answer bothered me more than it should have, but what had I expected? A thoughtful answer from a man whose father claimed he took nothing seriously? A deep confession to a man who couldn’t maintain a single close relationship, even with his own son?
He was right to want to keep things shallow. Cordial. Distant. No provoking, no flirtation. It was better that way.
“Finish briefing me now,” I said, pulling my laptop in front of me. “The more we focus, the sooner this goodwill tour will be over, and the sooner we can put the New Year’s Eve debacle behind us for good. Right?”
I wasn’t sure if I was talking about Nova Davidson’s wild ride or the wild night Reagan and I had spent together, but at that moment, I was almost sure I believed it.
Chapter Five
Reagan
“Reagan Wellbridge, you are a stupid fucker,” I whispered under my breath the moment Thatcher disappeared into his bedroom at the back of the bus and closed the sliding door with a snick.
From the moment I’d arrived at a hotel room for an anonymous hookup and come face-to-face (and dick-to-dick) with my longtime crush, I’d felt the threads of my life plan unraveling and slipping from my grasp. Even so, the way I’d acted with Thatcher earlier was ridiculous.
I wanted him to take me seriously as a professional. To stop thinking of me as his friend’s kid or, worse, the one-night indiscretion he regretted. So why had I goaded him when I could have made peace? Why had I let my frustration out when I could have either kept my mouth shut or fought back with a stealthy stinging retort, the way I had with McGee?
What made Thatcher so different?
Because Christ, if there was one thing I knew how to do, it was be polite. I’d been smiling placidly while choking back my real feelings for a freaking decade on the campaign trail and, heck, even at PennCo. Smoothing things over with charm came as easy as breathing to me. I even enjoyed it.
But apparently, not when it came to Thatcher.
God, this was annoying. He was annoying. The way I’d veered all the way from frustrated to soft-hearted when Thatcher had seemed tired and sad was annoying. I took a deep breath, found the lingering scent of Thatcher’s spicy cologne on the air, and groaned at how quickly my stomach clenched and my heart rate increased—the way I couldn’t get my mind out of the gutter with him was annoying, too.
“Stupid, stupid fucker,” I whispered again, thunking my head against the back of the seat.
That would be my new nickname, I decided. Because it was a hell of a lot more accurate than “Mr. Important” had ever been.
