Page 116 of One Wealthy Wedding

“What are you going to do when we divorce?” I ask.

We never talk about the divorce, almost like we’re both pretending it isn’t coming.

Her eyes flare. “I don’t know. I have the savings I mentioned.”

My chest pinches. Several thousand dollars. It’s not enough to get an apartment.

“I’m the part owner of a dirty sports bar,” she says dryly. “I’m sure things will be fine. I’ve survived worse. Besides, I can room with Blair if I need to.”

“And then?”

“Why are you pressing me about this?”

I don’t know, and I don’t want to think about why. “Answer the question.”

“Fine. I don’t have concrete plans. I have a year left of my MBA. I’ll finish my degree and then take over Peterson International. I started emailing the board members last week.”

“And?”

She shakes her head ruefully. “Nothing. Not even a single response.”

“What did you send them? Show me.”

“What is with you today?” she mutters, pulling out her phone and flicking through it before passing it to me.

In it, I see a simple email to one of the board members, claiming she’s the better choice over her father. “This isn’t enough,” I say.

She snatches the phone out of my hand. “Well, obviously. God, you sound like my professor.”

She shoves off the couch, and I grab her hand. She freezes. Cat and I don’t touch casually. Her walls are always up, and while Cole calls me a hugger, I frequently feel like Cat is a wild animal—on edge and ready to bolt.

She doesn’t pull her hand away. I run my thumb over her wrist, feathering over the silky skin and her erratic pulse.

“Let me help you, Cat.” I smile at her, hoping she’ll see my intentions are good. “I know a lot about this stuff.”

She stares at me for a few seconds, as if she’s weighing my sincerity. “Fine,” she sighs. “Let me get my laptop.”

We settle at the kitchen counter after she’s changed out of her work clothes. She sets her laptop up, and I pull beers out of the fridge.

“Did you eat?” I ask.

“Hmm?” She’s already deep in her work, tapping at the keyboard. No one works like this woman does.

“Hey, princess.” I sit at the counter, slide her a drink. She doesn’t notice. “Did you eat?”

She finally looks at me, blinking those chocolate eyes slowly, her sooty lashes making shadows on her cheeks in the kitchen lighting.

I want to kiss her.

For real. Not for show. And not because I want her in my bed, though I do, with a fierceness that surprises me.

She definitely doesn’t want that, though.

“I didn’t,” she admits. “Class was bad today, and then the stuff with the bar happened. I lost track of time.”

“Cat,” I say warningly.

“Theo,” she responds.

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