George Ryan Ross Iii Novels & Stories

he says as he slowly caresses my cheek and places one last kiss on my lips. Russell ✨✨(Third Person POV~ Russell stands by the entrance to the locker rooms, his nerves are in full course as he feels the adrenaline and vertigo crazed inside his body. His hands clammy and a shiver runs through his spine. He closes his eyes and sighs, tilting his head back, and concentrates on calming himself down. )✨✨

Roy was standing at the door, looking at the group chat. Ross was happily sending a ten-photo sequence from the airport. He was finally able to return from that far-off corner. He missed Jeswood! Ross. "From now on, Mrs. Collins will be my goddess." Raymond. "That won’t be enough. I’ll see her as my ancestor from now on." Raymond was also finally able to leave that far-off corner and come back. Roy, Rick, and Ronan all simultaneously sent. "Remember to call me Grandpa in the future."

It was exactly 3am in the morning at the operating room of one of the best hospitals in New York, the children of Mr Kel Ross where being born. Kel paced back and forth on the third floor and kept staring at the operating room were his wife was, and kept praying in his heart that his wife and children would come out safely. His mother who was seated kept assuring him that they would be alright.

His gaze meets mine. "Katherine Collins. It's a pleasure, Mr. Coleman." I offer a handshake, still amazed at how young he is, among other things. The square jaw, the stubble, and the blue, almost gray, eyes were a combination that made his face perfect. "Just Niels, please. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Collins. I am the Chief Marketing Officer, and I believe we'll be meeting frequently from today onwards." "You're the CMO of Ryan? Excuse my surprise... it's just that I expected someone less young."

“Three months ago, sir.” “Three months ago!” Ross yelled. “Why the hell wasn’t I informed right away?” “He was out in the day. There’s no way —” “Did Miss Daniels introduce you? What was his name?” Ross asked, as he began searching through the papers on his desk. “I believe she said his name, but it was so low I didn’t catch it,” Markees replied. Ross pushed Markees out his office. “Come back immediately when you have the name,” he yelled, and with that, he slammed the door.

He comes into the kitchen in his grey shirt, the one I have stopped asking him to hang up, and looks at my face before he looks at the laptop. “What happened,” he says. I turn the laptop toward him. He reads it standing up, one hand on the counter, and I watch his face move through several things in sequence. Recognition, because he knows Isabella’s story. Anger, controlled immediately, because it always is. And then something more precise, the particular expression of a man who is reading not just the words but the architecture behind them. “Ross,” he says. “I know that name.” “He’s written three pieces favorable to Gabriel Kane in the past two years,” I say. “All within the same six-week w