Page 5 of Forbidden Mistress

I turn my phone back off and set it on the counter. Then I scrawl out a note to Haley and stick in in the place it on her grocery shelf. IOU a can of soup.

I open the can and pour it into a bowl, then shove the soup into the microwave. As I wait for it to heat up, I lean against the kitchen counter. Tapping my fingers on the counter, my mind wanders back to the party.

Fuck Liam.

What gives him the right to swoop in—for the first time in years—and scare off the hottest guy I’ve seen in months? Okay, years, if I’m being honest. I’m usually so buried in my school work, I don’t have time to come up for air. This time, I was forced to actually be social, and it looked like I might actually get laid. I’m not usually a one-night-stand kinda girl, but fuck, I could have really used some D tonight.

Instead, I’m sitting in bed with my bowl of soup, watching Survivor reruns on Avery’s TV.

And eventually, I fall asleep—still hungry, and completely alone…

Chapter 3

Mystery Delivery

“Cassie, hey. Something came for you.”

I wake up to the sound of Avery’s impatient voice. I sit up and glance at the clock on my nightstand. It’s eleven in the morning. Oh, shit, I overslept. Thank God I don’t have work today.

“What?” I ask, yawning.

“Heavens, you sleep like the dead. I’ve been trying to wake you up for five minutes.” She has a square box cradled in the crook of her arm. I frown and blink at it. I have zero money to order anything online and I never get packages otherwise.

“I’m not expecting any deliveries.” I raise my arms above my head and push my toes out in a full body stretch. “Must be a mistake.”

“It’s not. It has your name on it. Haley signed for the delivery.”

I frown as she places the box on my bed. Slowly, I rise to sit up and turn to open it. Inside are two dozen perfect roses, clipped and arranged top-up, forming a carpet of crimson pedals. And the perfume is amazing, delicate, and fresh. They’re gorgeous.

There’s a card tucked into the side of the box. I open it up. There’s a stylized L embossed on the front, but nothing else. Inside, the briefest of notes is scrawled in a man’s handwriting.

Forgive me.

I stare down at it, trying to figure out who would have sent these. There’s no indication who this came from, so I hunt down my phone and turn it on to call the shop that delivered the flowers. As soon as I do, three separate messages pop up, all from Lori.

Got your message. I’ll send the money to your account.

Liam is asking about you. He wants to see you.

How about dinner tonight? I’ll make your favorite.

Yeah, that’s a hard pass. There’s not enough lasagna in the world that can convince me to sit down at a dinner table with Liam Force. I shake my head. If she expects Liam and me to come together as one big happy family, she is deep in denial. I can’t ignore the fact that he’s taken my dad’s legacy away from me. Shaking my head in disbelief, I type out a response to Lori.

Thanks, Lori. I appreciate it. I can’t do dinner, though. I’ve got plans tonight.

It’s a lie, of course, but she doesn’t know that. Not that it will satisfy her. She’ll text and call twenty more times, but my mind is made up. No way am I seeing Liam again. It’s actually in Lori’s best interest. Because if I see Liam, in person, sitting at our family dinner table, drinking my dad’s whiskey, I’m going to fucking lose it.

A new text comes in.

Whatever this is between you and Liam is silly. Your dad wouldn’t want this. Come have dinner.

Silly. Wow, talk about invalidation. Maybe it is silly to her, but she’s not relying on the money from dad’s company. She got the house, his pension, everything else—as she should have. No shade there. I just want what should have been mine, and Liam took that from me. So, yeah, I’m pissed.

I toss my phone on the bed. This shit is fucked up. I’m just annoyed that Lori is making this rift my fault instead of looking in her son’s direction. Maybe she just can’t imagine her baby boy doing something shady, but fuck, you don’t become one of the richest men in the country while still in your twenties by playing nice and making friends. And apparently, that ruthlessness extends to family.

I turn my attention to the flowers. Who could they have come from? Oh, right, the flower shop. I quickly dial the number on the business card. Someone picks up on the first ring.

“Hi, this is Cassie Fitzgerald. I just got a delivery of flowers, but there was no name. Can you tell me who they came from?”

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