Page 126 of Point of Contention

“Eloise literally thinks everything is gross.”

“True.” I chuckled. “Are you mad?”

“No, stupid. I wouldn’t have been mad the first time, either. Jealous maybe, but not mad. You just… you didn’t tell me. And then you, like, lied about stuff. It hurt, that’s all. I thought we were closer.”

“We were,” I said firmly. “Weare. That wasn’t anything to do with you. I wanted to tell you. I was just…”

“Scared.”

“Terrified,” I admitted, breathing deeply. “Still am a little, honestly. It all happened so fast, and there’s so much drama.”

“Par for the course, probably, you know? I mean, he’s likestupidrich. And his family is all old and stuffy money.” She sat up straighter and brought her fingers to her eye like she held a spectacle. “Allcheerioandpip-pip, andgood day, sir.”

I laughed, pushing her hand down. “They do not talk like that.”

“They do.” She looked at me with wide eyes. “I’ve heard it. I work for them now, you know.”

I rolled my eyes. I was the one who’d suggested Marisa to Cabot when he told me about all the temps that couldn’t stand to work for him. “What’s it like, working for him?”

“You want me to tell you the truth or sugarcoat it?”

I hissed in a breath. “That bad?”

She winked. “Nah, he’s been relatively…”

“Nice?”

Marisa laughed. “Have you met your boyfriend? No. Not nice. But… not mean either. I think he’s changed.”

I licked my lips, careful not to read too much into that. If the big scary CEO had changed, and was nicer now... what could possibly be the cause?

Spoiler alert.

It’s me.

Heh.

Marisa stood, then motioned to the bag. “Better open that before it gets cold.”

I picked up the brown paper bag, noting that the bottom of it was cold and slightly damp. “Too late.”

“Eek, sorry. See you at noon for lunch?”

I nodded and she left, then I opened the bag, smiling down at the contents.

Pulling each item out one at a time, I placed them on the desk in front of me.

A large green juice, freshly pressed.

A blister pack of ibuprofen.

An ice-cold bottle of alkaline water.

And, randomly, a Joey’s Fine Foods Black and White Cookie.

At the bottom of the bag, sat a folded piece of paper slightly damp from the condensation coming off the drinks. I grabbed it and opened it, smiling as I read Cabot’s handwriting.

My cheeks heated and I pressed the note to my chest, flicking my gaze around the room as if the walls had eyes as well as ears. I pushed the note into the pocket of my slacks, then grabbed my phone and called him.

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