and her barbed wire tongue went and accused me of benefiting from family nepotism. We’d have both been better off if she’d simply crashed her hand across my face.
I’m a highly sought-after architect with years of experience as a CEO and two degrees from top-notch schools. I’ve added billions to this company. I fought overseas. I’ve made Grandma’s vision bigger and brighter than the sun. I’m worth more than most men can dream.
And I absolutely do not need this shit in any way, shape, or form.
Hell, I could’ve started my own firm if I weren’t here for Grandma. Not many people run a multibillion-dollar company at thirty-two.
Yes, it’s my family’s company I’m running, and after what we’ve suffered, no one would have blamed us for closing up shop and retiring to some remote island.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so blunt with her, but after Grandma’s last EA hit on me and then skipped out of the place without notice, I learned my lesson.
It’s best to drag these issues out back and shoot them between the eyes.
Plus, it’s bad enough I had to pretend to be someone else to rescue her from the grabby loser at the museum. I intervened on her behalf, drove her home, and set her up to deal with the imminent hangover.
My reward?
She repaid me by pointing out my lack of a ring—as if I drip pure defeated bachelor—and then had the fucking gall to imply I’m only where I am thanks to Grandma.
Yeah, I get it.
Girls go for fun guys like Nick who are better at concealing their baggage, but someone has to be the level-headed brain behind decisions hundreds of livelihoods depend on. Not to mention the family legacy.
I didn’t need a nasty reminder of Maria, however innocent.
I damn sure didn’t need her verbal lashing in my office, even if it was retaliation for the way I dressed her down.
Most of all, I don’t need a pissing contest with a human porcupine working under me.
There’s no room for mistakes right now. Everything about our company and this pitch has to be perfect.
Ross Winthrope doesn’t play around.
He’s always been impressed by Grandma’s class, wisdom, and impeccable designs, yeah, but that’s not the whole game.
I can’t be distracted by references to my backstabbing ex or a sloshed-out wine-guzzling blond who looks like she just stepped off a magazine cover.
That’s what makes this torture.
Not just her shit, but how brutally attractive she looks while flinging it.
If I was as reckless as Nick and as foul as my father, I might have bent her over my desk, hiked up her dress, and shown her exactly who’s in control.
After I’m done with my inner zen of grumbling, I don’t see Pai—Miss Holly—the rest of the day.
Thank fuck.
With the peace and quiet, I’ve almost got the details of the formal bid for Winthrope nailed down. I’m working on tweaking it when my office phone rings.
“Ward Brandt,” I answer.
“I know you’re still at the office,” Grandma says.
I roll my eyes.
“Yeah, how?”
“Security camera. Go home, Ward. It’s past eight o’clock. You can work your life away tomorrow.”
“I’m finishing the bid.”
“The bid will be there tomorrow.” She pauses before saying softly, “I worry about you, Ward.”
What? I worry about her.
She’s in her seventies and running around with a workload and social life meant for a woman half her age.
I’m thirty-two, fit, and healthy.
There’s no reason for her to worry about me. Even if Grandma seems more unbreakable than anyone on the planet, she drives herself too hard.
“You know I appreciate your concern, Grandma, but I’m not twelve years old anymore. I can keep a sleep schedule, thank you,” I tell her.
“Someday you’ll have kids of your own, I hope. You’ll understand then,” she says quietly.
Nah. I’m married to Brandt Ideas and that’s the way it’s staying. The company is more loyal than any woman I’ve been with.
“Maybe so,” I say, keeping her hopes up. “But that’s not today.”
“Go home,” she orders again. “Don’t make me come down there myself.”
Dammit, the worst part is, she would.
“Let me wrap up and I’ll find my way home,” I say with a heavy sigh, pushing the phone back into its cradle.
Lucky for both of us I was about to head out anyhow. Better to let her think she won.
Old people, right?
Downstairs, I climb into the sprawling backseat of the souped-up Lincoln and lay my briefcase on the floor. I stopped bothering with the pomp of having drivers load it up for me years ago.
“Welcome back, Officer Warden!” Reese