Page 31 of The CEO I Hate

I hauled a box off the shelf. It was heavier than I’d anticipated, and it thumped down at my feet. “What the hell do you have in here, Jake?”

The answer turned out to be about forty pounds of brass basketball trophies, participation ribbons, and dusty proof that my brother had once been the king of everything.

I opened the box, rifling through his old jerseys and medals and trophies. I pulled out some glass award wrapped in bubble wrap and winced.Please don’t be broken. At the bottom of the box, I finally spotted what I was looking for. Yearbooks!

The first one I pulled out was from senior year. People had written in every page of Jake’s book. Notes, signatures, inside jokes…every single page was filled out.

Jake had beenpopular.

Not in the arrogant, quarterback-who-peaks-at-prom kind of way. No…he was the guy who remembered your birthday, who helped freshmen carry books, who could talk to anyone and make them feel seen. He lit up a room.

Back then—and even now—it was harder for him to see it. I ran my thumb over one of the messages.Don’t forget about karaoke night!! You promised!!!A tiny string of hearts had been drawn beside it.

I wondered if Jake even remembered this version of himself.

I closed the yearbook gently. Then, because I wasn’t about to let myself spiral, I flipped to the class photos.

Lockhart…Lockhart…

Yes, there he was! My finger brushed over his face. Well, well, well…look who knew how to smile back then.

Dammit.You know what? He still actually looked really good.

I grabbed the rest of the yearbooks intending to take them with me.

Hopefully, there’d be something more embarrassing inside one of the other ones. Like a bad haircut. Or visible frosted tips.

But I wasn’t holding my breath.

I heard laughter coming from inside and I cringed when I heard my mother mention coming to check on me. I looked at the switch for the garage door and contemplated making my grand escape before she dragged me back to the dinner table.

Except my shoes, bag and car keys were sitting next to the front door.

Dammit!

Clutching the yearbooks to my chest, I pushed the door open with more force than necessary and my mother squeaked in alarm and glared at me.

“There you are, Mia. What were you doing out there? Peter was just telling us a wonderful work story. Come back to the table,now.” My mother turned on her heel and strode back to the others calling out in a singsong that made me want to gag, “Found her.”

I rolled my eyes and set the yearbooks down by my shoes so I wouldn’t forget them.I really needed to set up escape contingencies, but realistically, how much could one person say about toilets?

11

MIA

Too much.

Way. Too. Much.

By the time dinner was over and I’d managed to escape the house of horrors, I knew I could rock any toilet trivia contest. I’d also been referred to several good plumbers—all in the Porter family of course—and had been given a fifteen-percent-off coupon for my next purchase of a smart toilet.

“We’ve got heated seats and a bidet feature,” Peter had told me as he’d shaken my hand while saying goodnight.

I’d thanked him and ran back to my car so fast, I think I was back in North Hollywood before my mother could clear the table. I couldn’t believe my parents thought I would date a guy like that. I knew they wanted me with someone stable. But toilets?

God, I wanted to scream.

Things only got worse when I walked into my building to find the elevator out of order. Again. This thing was on the fritz more often than the janky Wi-Fi Sophie and I had. I grumbled, heading for the stairs. Mentally, I was still fending off toilet talk and wondered if I really had the energy to haul myself up to the eighth floor.

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