Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 115468 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115468 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
He watched me for a moment, his expression soft. “Ah. You’re a romantic, Aurora Casteel.”
I felt heat infuse my face. It did sound romantic. Fanciful. And maybe silly too, though it didn’t feel that way. It felt true. And that truth simultaneously brought fear and a surge of relief. “Me? No. No, I don’t have a romantic bone in my body,” I insisted, waving my hand as though to scatter the notion. “It’s just the wine.”
He gave me a one-eyed squint, his lips tipping in a smile, but didn’t respond other than that. I watched him as he drizzled oil in a pan and then tossed in the ingredients he’d just chopped, a delicious aroma of basil and garlic rising in the air. Then he grabbed something from the refrigerator and added that to the pan of aromatic ingredients. Shrimp, I thought, my mouth beginning to water with all the delicious smells floating in the air. The last thing I’d eaten was a granola bar and coffee for breakfast. I’d been too nervous about the blood test to eat anything at all for lunch.
Mesmerized, I watched him work for a minute, his muscles loose, demeanor relaxed. He very obviously had an affinity for cooking. The way he moved as he chopped and whisked…it almost struck me as a sort of graceful dance. It looked natural and effortless. And something about his languid movements when he was preparing food reminded me of the way he’d moved over me on that pool table.
With skill and passion.
I quickly moved that aside with another glug of wine. “So tell me about your hometown,” I said, my voice slightly breathy. “Is your family originally from Calliope?”
He opened the oven door and looked in, peeking at a loaf of French bread I hadn’t even noticed him put inside, probably too busy staring at his ass every time he turned around and daydreaming about the things he’d done to me at Cakes and Ale. I picked up my wine and drained the glass.
“No, actually. My mother’s family is from here, but my father is from Boston. He grew up very poor but was smart and did well in school. He bought some rental properties with money he saved from working three jobs because he had a gut feeling about the area. That gut feeling paid off and he ended up selling them for ten times what he paid. He used that profit to buy more properties, kept listening to his gut and made his first million when he was thirty years old.
“My mother was the daughter of a business associate and he met her when he was traveling, fell in love, and moved to Calliope. He got in early on the investment properties that went up on the lakeshore which increased his net worth significantly, and then built The Buchanan when I was in college, the first in a string of luxury hotels bearing the family name. In the years since I started working at his company, we’ve built five more across the U.S. His ultimate dream is that someday the Buchanan name will be synonymous with Marriott or Hilton.”
“Thanks,” I said as Gage poured more wine in my glass. “And you’re following in his footsteps? To run the hotel dynasty one day?”
Gage picked up the pot of pasta and poured it in a strainer in the sink, the steam billowing in the air. His shoulders suddenly seemed stiff whereas he’d been so relaxed until he’d begun speaking about working with his father. He shook the strainer and then added the pasta to the pan of shrimp and tomatoes and whatever other delicious-smelling ingredients were in there. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “I’m following in his footsteps. But more importantly, I’m helping him expand his empire internationally when we build the first of our European hotels in London.”
Right, London. It sounded like it should be exciting. So why did he seem less than overjoyed about that? “Are you…is there something else you’d rather do?”
His eyes met mine. “What? No, of course not. I’ve known I was going to take over my father’s company my whole life. It’s always been the plan, and I couldn’t be more honored to be entrusted with his life’s work. He sacrificed so much to live the life he’s created for all of us. It took perseverance and grit and drive like I couldn’t possibly understand having been born into the privilege he created.” He tossed the ingredients in the pan, appearing almost…breathless after the long string of words he’d just spoken.
He turned, reaching into a cabinet and pulling out two plates that he then set down, one in front of me, and the other to my left. As he was collecting silverware from a drawer next to the stove, I said, “I understand the honor of being entrusted to keep something alive that was built with the blood, sweat, and tears of generations before you,” I said. When he turned back to face me, I followed with, “And I also understand the pressure.”