We skirt around the big issue for the next hour, talking instead about the now wonderfully quiet and efficient toilet. Then we shift to Grace’s exciting internship interview and the latest questionable food choices at Sunnyvale.
Mom senses I’m not in the mood for heavy conversation, not risking a repeat of the last emotional outburst, especially with Nurse Ratched lurking nearby.
Right on cue, Ratched signals me with thatCome herefinger gesture.
What now? Just weeks ago I dropped a payment that could finance a mini space exploration.
“Hello, Lexi,” she says briskly.
“Hi,” I reply stiffly, wondering what I did to deserve a rare greeting.
“I need to confirm authorization for the next payments,” she states impatiently.
“Next payments?” I blurt, starting to panic. “I just paid up for this term.”
Did the transaction not process correctly?
She sighs heavily, showing her impatience. “The next three years. They’re ready for your approval.”
I’m bewildered. “I can’t cover three years upfront.”
Where does she think I can pull that kind of money from? Is this her twisted idea of a joke?
“Well, it looks like someone can. Should I go ahead and process it?”
My pulse skyrockets. Paid in full? This can’t be real. Can it?
My mouth goes dry. My stomach is flipping. My guts are flopping.
I struggle to suck air into my constricted lungs. “I-I’m sorry, you’re saying . . . three years’ worth has been paid already?”
Ratched looks at me as if I’m slow on the uptake. “Yes, that’s correct. I just need your signature.”
I take a small step back, head spinning. Three years. Three whole years of debt justpoof! Gone. Thousands of dollars. Enough cash in one-dollar notes to fill a small pool.
There’s only one person with deep enough pockets to wipe out such a massive amount without blinking. Only one guy who could afford to throw money around like it’s nothing. And I won’t be indebted again, especially not to him.
“No,” I whisper, even as everything in me screams to just take it and run.
THIRTY-TWO
Lexi
“Meeting, now,” Vicky barks, eyeing me and Brooke sharply. “Connor and Willow just arrived.”
Shit. My gut plummets like a sack of bricks.
I trudge into the boardroom, trailing behind Brooke’s assertive march.
Willow’s planted at the head of the table, looking so tense she might be secretly doing Kegel exercises.
Connor’s pacing like a predator in a trap, every movement radiating tension and barely contained energy. His hands are hidden in his pockets, sleeves pushed up to reveal those distracting forearms. He’s making our tiny office feel even more cramped.
Same damn shirt from the night we hooked up in his office. Probably has an endless supply, like there’s a “Dress for Success: Brooding CEO Edition” subscription service.
For god’s sake, I thought this nightmare was over. There’s nothing left for me to do. Brooke’s handling the rest of the campaign, so why am I even here?
His brooding gaze lands on me instantly, and my traitorous heartbeat stutters. Does he practice that smoldering stare in the mirror every morning?
