Page 9 of Billionaire Protector

“Are you absolutely sure I’m not distracting you?”

Of course not.“Of course.”

“Positive?”

So not positive.“Positive.”

“So you weren’t distracted when you wrote these notes?”

As distracted as a wolf who stumbled upon an all you can eat bacon buffet.She couldn’t even remember how many times she’d reread them. And, of course, there was her cup of sugar with two teaspoons of coffee. “I already said no.”

“All right,” He handed her the paper, pointed to the second paragraph. “Then could you please clarify this section for me?”

“Of course.” She grasped the paper and slowly read the sentence out loud, “The robber fled in an older model, green getaway cat with gold rims and a busted bumper.”

A green getaway cat?

Damn. It.

Appropriate responses:

1.Pretend cat is a new type of car. (Problem: Um, really?)

2.Pretend she was testing him to see if he’d notice the error. (Problem: He’d sooner believe cat was a new type of car.)

3.Pretend cat means car in another language. (Problem, don’t have time to learn another language.)

4.Arrest him.

She tried to keep a straight face. “I don’t see the problem.”

“No?” He smiled broadly. “No problem at all?”

Keeping a straight face was getting more difficult. “Nope. Didn’t the notes say it was green?”

Cole’s eyes twinkled. “It was green all right.”

“An older model?”

“Uh-huh.”

“The gold rims.”

“Yeah, the cat had gold rims.”

Sarah bit her lip, as the anger melted into something lighthearted and not altogether terrible. Just like her feelings for him. “Hmmm.” She tapped her cheek. “It sounds fine to me. Haven’t you ever seen a green cat before?”

He chuckled. “Once, when my aunt’s kitten tipped over a pitcher of Kool-Aid. Still, I don’t remember her acting as a getaway vehicle for a robber. And I definitely don’t remember gold rims.”

“Well, of course not. She was only a kitten.” She wagged her finger. “Everyone knows cats don’t become getaway vehicles until they are at least three years old.”

“Is that right?” Cole drawled. “You do know the robber was three hundred pounds, don’t you?”

The image of a three-hundred-pound man riding a green cat was simply too much. The laughter came, wide and free and pure. And suddenly a heaviness disappeared from her chest, and oxygen was plentiful and sweet.

“Are you sure you don’t have a problem with admitting mistakes?” His voice remained serious and stern, yet a sparkle belied its harshness. “Not even a little?”

“Of course not.” She ruined her serious reply with a chuckle. “Obviously you’re the one who made the mistake.”

---