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Is that true? I frowned.
“But I don’t trust Reagan. I know, I know,” she said quickly, holding up a hand at whatever expression she saw on my face. “I admit that it was wrong of me to make accusations about his involvement—potential involvement—in the Nova situation. But watching him today, I can’t help thinking that he’s hiding something from me, and he’s quite self-satisfied about it. I don’t tolerate that sort of attitude on my team. In fact…” She hesitated, then admitted, “if you hadn’t vouched for him, Thatcher, I’d probably suggest that he’d be happier at another company. That’s one of the ways I ensure harmony in my team.”
“Is that right?” I asked softly.
“It is. And I know you’ll say he’s young and eager.” Layla’s mouth tilted up. “But you must admit you’re a little bit biased?—”
“Reagan’s not that young, and being eager is something I value in an employee,” I interrupted. I lowered my voice, very aware that Reagan could come out of the bedroom at any moment. “But understand this, Layla: I trust Reagan. Full stop. Not because he’s Trent Wellbridge’s son, not because I’ve known him for years, but for the simple fact that he is trustworthy. He’s not only creative and good at his job, as his one million Instagram followers would agree, he’s also hardworking, honest, and dedicated to PennCo—a quality the two of you share. So perhaps consider that you’re the one who’s a bit biased. And that perhaps you should reevaluate the way you run your team.”
I smiled a bit to soften the rebuke but also made a mental note to have January schedule a meeting with Layla after the tour so we could discuss her management philosophy and possibly restructure her division. All of the missing steps in the hierarchy at PennCo now seemed problematic for reasons that had nothing to do with me and Reagan sleeping together.
When I heard Reagan come out of the bedroom and head directly for the hall bathroom, I stood. “Bedtime,” I told Layla. “Take the bedroom tonight. I insist. I’d like you to be comfortable.”
Her features softened. “You’re so good to me, Thatcher. And I’ll think about everything you said, I promise.”
If she’d known I would have gladly signed over my penthouse for the chance to spend the rest of the night alone with Reagan, I doubted she’d have thought quite as much of my generosity, but I merely nodded, grabbed the few things I needed from my bedroom, and perched on the edge of a bunk, waiting for Reagan to emerge from the bathroom.
But when he did, I took one look at his troubled face and realized that my plans for the night were about to go to shit.
Chapter Fifteen
Reagan
Is there anything worse than sitting next to the sexy billionaire boss you’re hopelessly in love with, trying to pretend you’re focusing on work stuff when you’re really just picturing him naked while you do dirty, dirty things to him with your tongue?
Yes. Yes, there is.
It’s infinitely worse when you catch his eye and know he’s imagining the very same things, but you can’t do a damn thing about it because your fling has to stay a secret, your feelings are one-sided, and, oh yeah, because there’s a sniping, treacherous, handsy harpy watching you both a little too closely.
When Thatcher had offered me his bedroom for a little while, I hadn’t hesitated, even though I hated leaving him with Layla. I’d needed a break from the tension, and I’d needed to make a few crucial business contacts… which had been extremely enlightening, although the guy I’d been messaging probably wasn’t anyone Thatcher had thought I’d be contacting. Then, I’d sat for a long time, staring out the darkened window, wondering what to do with the information I’d learned.
Eventually, I’d left the room, but when I’d heard Thatcher and Layla getting ready to go to bed, I’d quickly ducked into the bathroom. I was the king of polite masks, but facing Layla after DMing with Terrance Fisher, Layla’s former marketing director, and hearing about his experience at PennCo Fiber might have been too much even for me.
“Fuck,” I breathed, peering at my scraggly appearance in the mirror. The fun part of this road trip was definitely behind us, and now it was simply a matter of surviving the remaining hours, even if it meant spending most of that time hiding out.
I took my time washing my face and brushing my teeth. By the time I came out of the bathroom, I’d decided to keep my newfound knowledge and suspicions to myself, at least until the trip was over. For now, I’d go to sleep in my narrow bunk and avoid everyone until we arrived in Honeybridge.
Thatcher had other ideas.
Arms folded over his chest to strain the seams of his shirt, knees spread, he slouched against what I’d thought would be Layla’s bunk, waiting for me. “Sit.”
The bossy voice got to me. I was afraid it always would. But I forced myself to continue standing. “Did you switch spots with Layla?”
He nodded.
“That was nice of you. I’d love to chat, but I was going to go to bed. I’m tired.” I kept my voice modulated so as not to sound like a whiny child.
Thatcher looked at me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Okay, then. Go to bed.”
I hated that I was a little bit disappointed when he gave in so quickly. I forced myself to look away and move toward the bunk. I’d already changed into pajama pants and a T-shirt, so I pulled down the comforter and slid into the bed. When I reached over to yank the bunk curtain closed, my hand hit Thatcher’s warm body as he leaned forward to shove in next to me.
“Move over,” he said in a voice that was sexy enough to light my clothes on fire.
“Are you insane?” I hissed, glancing over his shoulder and noticing he’d already closed the curtain on the other bunk.
“Nope. You said you wanted to go to bed, so we’re going to bed. Move over.”
I gaped at him. “I’m not sleeping with you when my boss is on the other side of a pencil-thin door.”
