Page 53 of One Big Little Secret

Huh.

I’ve also never heard anyone mention a Rory senior before.

There are the three brothers, and I’ve heard of a Mrs. Rory floating around town like a very rich social butterfly, but there’s never been a patriarch figure making his presence known.

Bad blood, maybe? Or is his dad no longer around?

I hate how I want to know, and how he keeps humanizing himself without really trying.

“I get it,” I say. “Miss Hopper feels like my mother sometimes. She’s Mrs., of course, but you know what I mean.”

He nods like he understands.

Must it always be so awkward?

But Patton Rory stands in my office and looks at me like he can read the thoughts in my head. Worse, like he doesn’thatewhat he sees.

Who are you and what have you done with my grumpybutt boss?

It almost makes me think of that night again and the easy laughs we shared—until I remember my promise to never go there again.

“What else is on your mind lately?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe.

My eyes snag on his figure as he slouches.

God, even when he isn’t trying, he slays.

He’s a tall man with a runner’s body, lean and built and powerful. Broad-chested and cut from pure sin from the abs on down.

Just looking at him makes me feel self-conscious. I wonder how he’s only gottenhottersince our hookup.

Me, I bounce between twenty and thirty pounds overweight. My skin has stretch marks that weren’t there six years ago before a baby and a mountain of stress. I’m older and worse for the wear than when I was twenty-one, and I was never runway material.

“The Egyptian towels are a rave success. Don’t let it go to your head,” I say grudgingly. Anything to focus back on work. “They’re harder to wash according to housekeeping, but I’ve had several guests say they’re the comfiest towels they’ve ever felt. They even want to bring them home.”

“Does it cut into the budget too much?”

“The one you approved? No, not much.” I resist the urge to call him out more on the budget, but I can’t fault him for not remembering every line item. “I also had another idea to ramp up the luxe feel. Handmade soaps.”

The skeptical look on his face is priceless.

Egyptian towels—importedfromEgypt—are clearly fine, but suggesting we try handmade soap from local sellers is outrageous.

“Handmade soaps,” he repeats it like he’s chewing a piece of lemon.

“Well, I heard from around town”—from Kayla, actually, but so far I’ve managed to keep her far away from here, thank God—“that your mom sponsors a lot of art groups. Is that right? This might be a cool way to give back to Kansas City, if she can hook us up with some local sellers who take bulk orders.”

“You heard about my mother? Word does get around,” he says flatly, but his frown seems more conflicted.

I wonder if I’ve messed up. Maybe it’s weird hearing about his mom from me and getting so personal.

“Patton, I just meant—”

“It’s not a bad thought.”

I do a double take, blinking.

“It’s not? Am I dreaming?” Yes, my mouth runs away with itself again.

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