Houston, we have a problem!
But it wasn’tmyproblem anymore, I reminded myself.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, my tone making it clear he wasn’t welcome.
Weston’s hand curled around my doorframe, his fingers blanching as he tilted forward. “Well, apparently you’re too busy to answer a simple phone call,” he said, giving me an up and down look that made me shiver.
I suddenly felt horribly underdressed, goosebumps flushing across my body as his eyes took in my rolled sweatpants, the old, oversized T-shirt I’d gotten on my college semester abroad, and the lopsided bun on the top of my head. This was a far cry from how put together I always tried to be at the office.
Weston’s eyebrow arched as if thinking the same, and I stiffened, indignant. What right did he have to judge what I wore in the comfort of my own home? It wasn’t like I’d invited him here, and if the sight of me was so offensive, he was more than welcome to leave.
“My ringer is off,” I lied.
“Why would it be off?” he snapped, dragging his eyes back to my face. “How does that help anyone? The PR team has been trying to set up a meeting, but I can’t even get my assistant to respond to my voicemail. So of course I had to trek out here to track you down at home!”
The words tumbled from his mouth in a vicious rush, his accent heavier than usual. That happened when he was either aggravated or on the phone with one of his friends back home. I hated to admit I usually found it attractive. Right now, though, those rollingRs were doing nothing for me.
He inched forward again, but I stepped closer to the door, blocking his entry. “I wasn’t worried about taking your calls because one, I no longer work for you. And two, I thought you’d be on your way to Scotland by now.” Everything had been arranged for his flight to take off in the early afternoon—hours ago.
He frowned, his chest rising and falling as he loomed above me. “I would have been,” he growled. “If you hadn’t lit the heather on fire here in Houston.”
“I think you lit your own heather on fire first,” I said as my hand tightened on the doorknob.
“I didn’t need you to fan the flames!”
I beat away a flash of guilt. Yesterday, I would have hunted down all of Narissa’s posts, forwarded them to IT and legal and PR. We would have shut down what we could, threatened to sue for defamation, and smoothed over the rest with some positive press for Kincaid Energy.
Maybe I’d have suggested that Arnie finally get that alpaca farm he was always going on about.
But tonight, I was no longer Lena Harp, Weston Kincaid’s personal assistant.
Tonight, I didn’t care what kind of damage Narissa was doing to his image or how many exotic STIs she claimed he had.
The timer on my oven beeped. I turned toward the kitchen on autopilot, then stumbled as Weston barged through without so much as an invitation.
“I didn’t say you could come in,” I huffed. But now that he was in, I knew there’d be no getting him out again until he’d said everything he came to say, so I threw in the towel and closed the door. No need to put on a show for the neighborhood, after all.
“Look at this!” he cried, phone in hand. “She’s absolutely lost the plot.” One of Narissa’s social media posts flashed across his screen:Watch out ladies, all the wining and dining is great,but one drink and things in the bedroom get boring real fast. #whiskydick!
He scowled at me. “That is not true!”
“I wouldn’t know,” I said.
“Lena!” he grumbled. “Oh, look, here’s another.Looks like he smells like top-shelf liquor and sandalwood. Actually smells like unresolved daddy issues.” He sneered at the screen. “We named his private jet Emotionally Unavailable. You read between the lines on that one!”
I fought the snicker threatening to make its way up. Okay, yeah, none of these were going to help him lock down a wife for a temporary marriage.
“There are half a dozen more just like this.”
And knowing Narissa, I’d bet on at least a dozen more in the next few hours.
“PSA,” he continued reading. “He got an exotic STI from a trip to the jungle! Avoid. Avoid. Avoid. Unless you want to become his next victim.”
“Well, that one must be old news by now,” I said diplomatically.
“Lena!” Weston bellowed. “I’ve never even been to the jungle!”
I winced. Narissa was running with this. Hard and fast.
