Page 125 of Illicit Education

“What?” Mina said incredulously. “You’re kidding.”

Travis laughed, then quickly closed his mouth.

“I’m not.” Harkins shook his head. “I think it’s the only way to spin this in a positive light.”

My heart pounded loudly in my ears.

My grip on the coffee mug was fierce, knuckles white as I stared down at the dark liquid.

They couldn’t’ be serious. I’d know her less than a month.

“Cabot?” Mina said, her voice calm.

“No.” I looked up at her and shook my head. “I would never force her into that.”

“But you’d force her to be trussed up like a hog on stage—”

Rombauer’s words cut off as I lunged for him, but Travis was quicker than me, had already sensed the energy in the room, and he blocked me faster than I could get in a shot at the old bastard.

Mina rose quickly to her feet. “Okay, let’s keep working on ideas.”

“Come on, buddy,” Travis pushed me with his broad shoulders and began to lead me reluctantly away from the kitchen. “Let’s get some air.”

Chapter Forty

Rylan

After spending all day in bed with my best friend, eating too much ice cream and watching oldJackassepisodes until our sides hurt, I finally felt ready to see Cabot. It had only been twenty-four hours since I’d left Whitestone, but my body ached to be close to him.

I had needed time to think, and, frankly, who could think with that beautiful man around?

But I’d processed all I could for now, and I missed him something fierce. I’d been spoiled spending so much time with the man, and now that we’d spent the night together, something about my empty bed just didn’t feel right anymore.

I needed him. Especially now. Especially with what we were dealing with.

So, just after eight o’clock on Sunday night, when Greer left for work, I called him.

“Rylan?” he said after the second ring.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” He breathed the word, his voice full of relief. “Are you okay?”

“Come pick me up?”

“On my way.”

An hour later, I was settled into the passenger seat of the Pumpkin King, breathing in Cabot’s familiar scent while I watched him navigate the streets of New York.

“Where are we going?” he asked me at a stoplight.

“Your place.”

He side-eyed me, then nodded.

“Not Gram-gram’s.”

He gave a curt nod and eased the car forward, driving slower and more cautiously than his usual reckless self.

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