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“I don’t want to do either of those things. I’m a social media manager?—”
She patted my arm. “Of course you are. Just like you were a finance expert when your father got you that job with Buck Stanley. And the public speaking internship with Tish Cooper’s firm. Oh, and the design job with Martin, Heller, Bramovich… I think you lasted nearly two months with that one! I’m sure you’re doing great things at Pennington Industries, but really… how long will that last, sweetheart?”
The hardest part about hearing her recite my list of failed career opportunities was that I couldn’t argue with any of it. I’d tried—genuinely tried, I thought—at all of them. But the only talent I’d demonstrated was quitting… once, after just two weeks. I wouldn’t embarrass either of us by insisting, yet again, that this time was different… though it really was.
Late last summer, after JT had come home to Honeybridge and fallen for Flynn, I’d done a lot of soul-searching about what I really wanted (and didn’t want) out of life. I needed a purpose. I’d realized that the things I was already doing—namely, successfully managing social media for myself and several wealthy friends—was making me enough money for a man to live on, if that man was willing to forego certain luxuries. What’s more, I was passionate about social media. I was good at it. And best of all, I could continue to help my father’s campaign while also building my resume by simply taking over as social media strategist for the Trent Wellbridge for Governor campaign. It would be, I’d told my parents, a win-win for everyone.
My father had literally laughed out loud.
Despite my experience overhauling my friends’ images online, despite having over a million Instagram followers, despite the utter lack of social media vision in my father’s campaign, despite the decade I’d spent attending political rallies and public events, he’d told me there was no way he’d consider me for the job.
Unreliable, he’d called me. Untrustworthy. Undisciplined.
I’d been angry. Hurt. But more than that, I’d been freaking determined to prove that I meant what I said. So, I’d decided to rehabilitate my own image. To make sure I was never again seen as a slacker or a nepo baby. To make myself so valued, so in demand that my father would beg me to work for him.
When my father’s friend Thatcher—thick-bearded, kind-eyed, straight-as-an-arrow, first-guy-I’d-ever-crushed-on Thatcher Pennington—had offered me an entry-level PR job as an olive branch to the family after his son had behaved badly in Honeybridge last summer, it had seemed like a sign. If I could impress him, my parents’ opinion of me would rise like the tide, and the campaign job would be mine. The fact that I’d get to work with Thatcher—joke over long lunches with Thatcher, drool over the suit-porn eye candy of Thatcher, discreetly sniff the goodness of Thatcher the way I’d dreamed of doing since the first time I’d met him (and his lovely second wife) when I was fifteen—would be a delightful side benefit.
I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry at how foolishly optimistic I’d been.
I hadn’t asked any follow-up questions, like what exactly the work would entail. I hadn’t considered just how little Thatcher would think of my abilities after hearing stories from my father all these years. And I’d found myself stuck working in a tiny cubicle all the way in the back corner of the PR department at PennCo Fiber, one of twelve smaller Pennington subsidiaries, not even in the same building as the eye candy I needed to impress. Being a public relations associate for a textile company was akin to being a security guard at a nunnery since nothing of note ever happened.
And none of that frustration meant I was going to quit—not this time, no way—but it also meant that I was due for some good karma.
Preferably in the form of a sexy, mysterious Roman warrior who smelled like sage and woodsmoke.
“Please think about it,” my mother said when I went too long without replying. “We really do miss you, Reagan.”
I forced a smile. One of these days, I’d really like to be missed by someone for all the right reasons. Because they wanted me, specifically me. But in the meantime… there was a man waiting for me who’d chosen me out of a crowded ballroom without knowing a damn thing about my parents. Who’d wanted to fuck me—for me to be his good boy—without even seeing my camera-ready face. And that was more than enough for tonight.
“Of course,” I lied. “But in the meantime, I have to go. Safe travels back to Maine.” I leaned in to kiss her cheek. “And wish Dad good luck on the new legislative session.”
Before she could argue, I headed through the crowd toward the nearest exit. The cool quiet of the hotel lobby was a relief after the ballroom packed with story-hungry reporters and deep-pocketed political donors, but I didn’t slow down to appreciate it. I jabbed the Up button and stared at my blurry reflection in the copper-colored elevator doors, tapping my toe impatiently.
I’d been eager to get upstairs before, but now I couldn’t wait another second to see my mystery man. With just a few words, the man had set off a spark in me so hot it might burn me from the inside out if I didn’t let him quench it. And if the Universe was finally giving me a gift, a moment of clarity and brightness where I didn’t need to prove anything to anyone, I was ready to accept.
So I stepped inside the elevator and, a few moments later, stepped out onto a deserted hallway that I followed down to Room 4187.
I’d learned over the years that life could be full of disappointment. The trick was to keep trying… and take your moments of happiness where you could find them.
A low ding from the elevator down the hall made me realize how long I’d stood outside the hotel room, immobile. But before I could tap the lock to open the door, I realized a man had gotten out of the elevator and was heading my way, watching me steadily.
Not just any man. My Roman warrior.
It was possibly the most Instagram-worthy moment of my life, but I had no urge to take a picture and share this with the world. This night was just for me.
“You’re late,” he said as he approached.
In this light, I noticed all sorts of things I hadn’t seen downstairs. The hint of salt and pepper at his temple, the utter assurance of his posture as he walked. This was a man who’d probably never heard the word no, who didn’t understand the concept of failure, and for some reason, that drew me to him like a magnet.
“I’ve been standing here for several minutes, just… thinking,” I admitted, feeling stupid.
“Is that so?” His firm mouth twitched at the corner. “Having second thoughts now that you’re here?”
“No,” I said honestly. “I tried, but they wouldn’t stick. I rarely have second thoughts until after I’ve done something.”
He rewarded me with another lip twitch and gestured toward the doorknob. “After you, then.”
I let myself in the room, and he trailed me, following closely enough for me to get another hit of his woodsy scent. As soon as the door closed behind us and I slipped the key card back into my pocket, he moved even closer until his nose brushed the back of my ear and his warm breath hit the skin below.
