And she—she—had the absolute audacity to blow me a kiss.
My blood pressure nearly exploded my heart right then and there, and it didn’t recover either. Any hope of blending into traffic died a spectacular death the moment I hit the street.
In a sea of sensible grays, blacks, and whites, my hot-pink nightmare strutted down Michigan Avenue like a neon billboard advertising my humiliation. The convertible top, naturally,wouldn’t close, leaving me completely exposed to the pointing, laughing, phone-wielding masses.
Pedestrians doubled over with laughter. Drivers honked. Not in anger, but in amusement. Someone actually applauded as I crawled through a yellow light.
I wanted to disappear. I wanted to sink through the pink leather seats and emerge somewhere far, far away. Preferably somewhere Dakota had never been born.
Things got exponentially worse when some jackass in a pickup cut me off, and I instinctively hit the horn.
MEOW.
The sound that emerged wasn’t the sharp blast of a normal car horn. It was a loud, obnoxious cat sound that echoed off the surrounding buildings like an audio announcement of my shame.
The pickup driver nearly swerved into a parked car; he was laughing so hard.
Blood roared in my ears as I inched closer to the restaurant, my hands gripping the steering wheel like it was Dakota’s neck. But the absolute worst moment—the cherry on top of this shit sundae—came when I was stuck behind a delivery van, waiting to turn right.
Because when I glanced over at The Blackstone’s outdoor seating area, positioned right there on the sidewalk next to traffic, I locked eyes with two very familiar faces.
No.
No, no, no, no, no.
Of course the executives were sitting outside. Of course they had front-row seats to my vehicular humiliation. The very men who controlled the funds that could rescue my business from its cash flow disaster with one healthy investment.
Their gazes swept over the hot-pink monstrosity, taking in the whiskers, the googly eyes, the fuzzy (yep) tail on the back, the sheer impossibility of what they were seeing.
Then, because this day couldn’t get any worse, they burst out laughing. Not polite chuckles. Not suppressed snickers. Full-blown, tears-streaming, can’t-breathe laughter.
Frank Prescott, CEO of Prescott Industries, was literally holding his side. Carl Chen was wiping tears from his eyes.
I sat there in my pink prison, trapped by traffic, while the two people who held my company’s future in their hands watched me inch past in what could only be described as a motorized cat toy.
And as I did, one thought beat through my anger:
I’m going to kill Dakota.
24
WHEN YOU THOUGHT THE CAT MOBILE WAS AWFUL. UNTIL THE MYSTERIOUS GUEST ARRIVES. #PLOTTWISTUNWANTED
AXEL
“Nice car,” Frank said, that smirk still plastered across his face as he stood to shake my hand.
I forced a smile, wondering if they could see my molars grinding to dust.Dakota, you beautiful, diabolical vixen.
“My fiancée is a prankster.” Fiancée. Shit. I was supposed to still call her my girlfriend until we’d officially and publicly become engaged.Thanks, Dakota, for making me slip.
I shook Carl’s hand and settled into my chair, immediately surprised to see a fourth place setting. Menu. Water glass. The works.
What the hell?
This was supposed to be just the three of us. If Dakota had somehow orchestrated a way to crash this meeting, I’d figure out some creative form of revenge that would make today’s stunt look like child’s play.
“Your fiancée did that?” Carl’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline.
