FORTY-EIGHT
The next day, four hundred and eighty-three kisses later – not that he was counting or anything – Jason reluctantly left Phuong watching TV so he could look through the email Xan had sent, detailing her plans for his resort. Bad news first – he clicked on the half-yearly financial report, knowing it couldn't be good.
Columns of numbers filled his laptop screen in endless ranks of red and black. Meier used to explain it all to him, but he didn't think Xan would be quite as accommodating. No, he had to wrap his head around these figures before their meeting on Monday so he wouldn't look like a complete fool.
But there were pages and pages of numbers. None of them meant anything to him. He should be sitting on the couch with Phuong, her body tucked against his, as he did his
