“I’m calm. I’m perfectly calm.”
I was about to crawl out of my skin.
“You’re keeping yourself still because you’re worried about what Madison might be seeing,” he clarified.
“Who has a glass office? Don’t you ever want privacy?”
“How do you feel about Italian?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Your stomach just growled.”
“That was just… indigestion. You’re giving me a stress ulcer.”
“In that case—” he said, hitting the call button that had Madison immediately moving out from behind her desk.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my spine stiffening.
“Madison, would you see to setting up Layna with a full spa day?”
“What?” I asked.
“Full-service,” he clarified.
“Of course.”
“I don’t—”
“Within the next hour.”
“I will arrange it,” Madison said, nodding, then let herself back out of the room.
The frantic way she reached for her phone and typed on her computer told me that this was a big ask and was going to require some wand-waving.
“I don’t want a spa day.”
“You just admitted you’re stressed.”
“And the one way to remove my stress is to sign the papers.”
“How about we discuss the papers,” he said, biting off that last word, “this evening. After your spa visit.”
“Why can’t we—”
There was a small beep from the intercom on his desk, making his head turn to glance toward the waiting room.
“I would rather talk to you, but I have a meeting,” he explained.
My gaze followed his, finding a very serious group of three men and a woman (all in their fancy suits with briefcases in hand) standing at Madison’s desk.
I might want an expedited divorce, but I didn’t actually want to screw with his business. Especially since, clearly, dozens (if not hundreds) of people relied on him for a paycheck.
“Fine,” I grumbled, chugging my coffee, placing the mug on his desk, then getting to my feet.
By the time I did, Harrison had his sleeves down and his jacket back on.
“Madison will text you the details about the spa.”
