Page 18 of Some Like It Hott

I’m used to dotting everyiand crossing everyton multibillion-dollar deals. A 4.5 on a bunch of cruise ship activity sessions feels entirely doable.

Get in, get out, get it done.

I settle myself at the head of the table. I’m early.

I check my email, my texts. I check and recheck some numbers one of the junior analysts ran for me.

They still add up. The third time, too—is dotted,ts crossed.

Hanna sticks her head in. “Be nice to her,” she says.

“I’m always nice.”

My sister rolls her eyes. I seem to be getting that a lot lately.

She leans against the door frame. “Did Kali come back to Rush Creek with you this time?”

Damn. I’d been hoping since she hadn’t asked about my ex-wife yet, we’d avoid this whole topic. No such luck.

“She’s super busy,” I say. Which is true, as far as it goes.

So, yeah: I may have neglected to mention to my family that I’m no longer married. And the longer I don’t mention it, the bigger of a thing it becomes. How do you tell your family that you made it all the way to signed divorce papers without mentioning to them that your marriage was fucked?

Hanna crosses her arms. Stares at me with icy blue eyes that remind me of our grandfather’s. Eyes that see right through my lies.

I almost crack, except that right then Natalie pokes her head in the door, smiling, curls bobbing. “Hey!”

“You’re late,” I tell her.

“Preston,” Hanna growls.

“Go,” I tell her, pointing at the door, and, glaring at me the whole while, she does.

Natalie consults her phone. “I’m not late. There’s a five-minute grace period on everything, and I’m only two minutes past that, which isn’t even five minutes late.”

“Early is on time; on time is late; and late is unacceptable,” I counter.

She shakes her head. “Early is early. On time is on time. And a little late is just being human.”

I frown. “No one ever said that.”

“They should have.”

She’s not remotely intimidated by me. Which is foreign and…also intriguing.

She steps all the way into the conference room. She’s wearing a pair of capri pants and a blue scoop-necked top. I try—unsuccessfully—not to notice how the pants fit snugly over her perfect ass and the top swerves suggestively over her way-more-than-a-handful tits. I make an internal note: Tonight, I’m Tindering and blowing off some steam, something I haven’t done in months. I’ve lost track, which tells me all I need to know. Enough of this bullshit.

Her hands are empty.

“Where’s your laptop?” I demand.

Natalie shrugs. “I don’t have one. I’ll take notes on my phone.”

“You can’t view a whole spreadsheet on your phone.”

“I wasn’t planning on viewing any spreadsheets.” She lowers her voice to a murmur. “Also, are we going to pretend you didn’t see me dancing in my bra?”

“Yes,” I say, because that is the only rational response to the situation. Nothing good could possibly come of dwelling on that moment. Of remembering what I saw. Efficiency is the name of this game.

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