From Ex to Eternity. Kat Cantrell
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“How many guests?” Mary didn’t mince words but her work ethic was unparalleled. He hired only the best.
“Five hundred, with two venues and two different themes.”
Keith did a double take. Really? Conceptualizing two separate themes was ridiculous, but he eyed Cara with new respect, nonetheless, because she’d also done it while pregnant. Without his help.
Then, because of him, she hadn’t gotten to enjoy any of it. His stomach rolled. He’d given lip service to making it up to her, but that wasn’t actually possible. Yet she’d let it go, as if he’d done nothing more serious than misplace her favorite earrings.
“I’ll leave the two of you to it,” he said and escaped.
Keith met with Elena so he and the resort manager could formulate a plan to fill the vacant wedding coordinator position and then he spent an hour alone in his office buried in procurement paperwork. In the next room, Alice and a couple of additional team members slashed through the pages-long to-do list, communicating their progress via chat windows. Keith glanced through the updates periodically while he pretended not to be dwelling on Cara.
Probably he should forget about how gorgeous and tantalizing and challenging she was. He’d done nothing to reconcile his screwup, and her back-off sign couldn’t be any larger.
A reminder beeped on his phone but he didn’t need it. Today was his mom’s birthday and with the time difference between here and Miami, he should catch her before she started preparing for an evening on the town. His father escorted her to the opera and dinner every year like clockwork.
She picked up on the forth ring.
“Hi, Mom. Happy birthday.”
“Keith. How nice of you to call,” she said coolly as if he never called, which was patently false. “Are you enjoying Turks and Caicos? I prefer Bali this time of year but Grace Bay is satisfactory for a weekend getaway, I suppose.”
Cara is here, Mom. At the resort. Yes, she’s still a knockout but different, too. Unexpectedly so. I have no idea what to do about her.
“I’m working,” Keith said. “I’m not on vacation.”
Mitchells didn’t work; they made money as passively as possible. Neither of his parents understood his drive to break family tradition and actually get his hands dirty. The most immersing activity his dad had done in the past twenty years was browse through the prospectus of the multibillion-dollar portfolio he’d amassed as a hedge fund manager. Following in his father’s footsteps was about as attractive to Keith as sucking up Florida swamp water with a straw.
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