Beautiful Bastard (Beautiful Bastard, #1)(57)

Walking back to the bed, I straightened the blankets and headed toward the suite’s living room. I grabbed a bottle of water from the minibar and sat on the couch.

If he was sick, I mean really sick, there was no way he could make the Gugliotti meeting in a couple of hours.

I switched on the TV and began flipping through the channels. Infomercial. Bad movie. Nick at Nite. Ahh, Wayne’s World. Sitting back into the couch, I tucked my legs under me and prepared to wait. Halfway through the movie, I heard the water running in the bathroom. I sat up and listened as it was the first sound I’d heard in over an hour. The bathroom door opened and I flew off the couch, grabbing another bottle of water before entering the bedroom.

“Are you feeling better?” I asked.

“Yes. I think I just need to sleep now.” He stumbled into bed, burying his face in the pillow with a groan.

“What . . . what was wrong?” I placed the bottle of water down on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed next to him.

“It was just my stomach. I think it was the sushi at dinner.” His eyes were closed and even in the dim light coming from the other room, I could see that he looked like hell. He turned away from me slightly but I ignored it, placing one hand in his hair and the other on his cheek. His hair was damp and his face was pale and clammy, and despite his initial reaction, he leaned into my touch.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” I asked, brushing a few damp strands away from his forehead.

“Because the last thing I needed was you in there watching me throw up,” he replied almost grumpily, and I rolled my eyes, offering him the bottle of water.

“I could have done something. You don’t have to be such a man.”

“Don’t be such a woman. What could you have done? Food poisoning is a pretty lonely business.”

“So what should I tell Gugliotti?”

He groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. “Shit. What time is it?”

I glanced at the clock. “Just after seven.”

“What time is the meeting?”

“Eight.”

He started to get up but was easy enough to shove back down into the bed. “No way in hell are you going to that meeting like this! When was the last time you threw up?”

He groaned. “A few minutes ago.”

“Exactly. Gross. I’ll call him to reschedule.”

He gripped my arm before I could walk over to the desk and grab my phone. “Chloe. You do it.”

My eyebrows inched to my hairline. “Do what?”

He waited.

“The meeting?”

He nodded.

“Without you?”

He nodded again.

“You’re sending me to a meeting alone?”

“Miss Mills, you’re as sharp as a spoon.”

“Fuck off,” I said, laughing and pushing him gently. “And I’m not doing it without you.”

“Why not? I bet you know the account we’re offering as well as I do. Besides, if we reschedule he’s just going to take a lavish trip to Chicago and send us the bill. Please, Chloe.”

I stared down at him, waiting for him to break into a teasing grin or take it back. But he didn’t. And the truth was, I did know the account, and I did know the terms. I could do this.

“Okay,” I said, smiling and feeling a surge of hope that we could figure this—us—out after all. “I’m in.”

His face grew harder, and he used the voice I had barely heard in days. It sent small waves of hunger through me. “Tell me the plan, Miss Mills.”

Nodding, I said, “I need to make sure he’s clear on the project parameters and timelines. I’ll watch out for overpromising; I know Gugliotti is notorious for that.” When Bennett nodded, smiling a little, I continued. “I’ll confirm the contract start dates and the milestones.”

When I ticked all five of them off on my fingers, his smile grew. “You’ll be fine.”

I bent and kissed his damp forehead. “I know.”



Two hours later, if you asked me if I could fly, I would have answered yes in an instant.

The meeting had gone off perfectly. Mr. Gugliotti, who had initially been peeved to find an intern in the place of a Ryan executive, had softened when he heard the circumstances. And later, he seemed impressed with the level of detail I was able to provide.

He’d even offered me a job. “After you finish with Mr. Ryan, of course,” he’d said with a wink, and I carefully demurred.

I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to be done with Mr. Ryan.

On the way back from the meeting, I called Susan to find out what Bennett liked when he was sick. Just as I suspected, the last time she’d been able to spoil him with chicken noodle soup and Popsicles, he’d been wearing a retainer. She was delighted to hear from me, and I had to swallow the guilt I felt when she asked if he was behaving. I assured her that all was fine and that he was only suffering from a mild stomach bug and that, of course, I’d have him call. With a small bag of groceries in hand, I walked into the room, stopping in the small kitchen area to drop off the food and take off my tailored wool suit.

Wearing only my slip, I moved into the bedroom, but Bennett wasn’t there. The bathroom door was open, and he wasn’t there either. It looked as if housekeeping had been in; the linens were crisp and neat, and the floor had been tidied of our piles of discarded clothes. The balcony door was open, letting in a cool breeze. Outside, I found him sitting in a chaise, elbows propped on his knees, his head in his hands. He looked like he’d had a shower and was now dressed in dark jeans and a short-sleeved green T-shirt.