She slipped a hand into her purse and held it out to me.
I hesitated before taking it, but I didn’t ask why it wasn’t in my cloud.
“Thank you.”
She didn’t say, “You’re welcome.”
I glanced at the sheet and stopped reading after the first page.
Good evening.
My name is Harrison Cross and I’m an asshole billionaire who dragged my CFO here. Pleasure to be amongst fellow evil tyrants.
“There better be another draft,” I said.
She opened a book.
“It’s going to be hard to communicate with my executive assistant if she’s refusing to talk to me.”
“I’m not supposed to be your fucking executive assistant,” she hissed, unbuckling her seatbelt. “I’m supposed to be more than that, and I’ll never forgive you for playing such a cruel game with my livelihood.”
“Miss Stone?—”
“Don’t talk to me until we’re at the conference.” She stood up and drew an imaginary line between us. “Respect my boundary.”
She moved to the back of the plane and took a window seat.
She didn’t say another word for the rest of the flight.
And when we landed in Hawaii, she took a separate car to the hotel.
It wasn’t until I arrived after her that I realized she’d booked us in two separate suites.
On two separate floors.
I wasn’t sure why that made my chest hurt.
TWENTY-NINE
ANDREA
The Rising Coffee Conference was an absolute paradise.
For everyone except me.
Outside, guests partied beneath strings of warm lights that shimmered over the shoreline. Inside, the scent of espresso and caramel drifted through the terrace doors while laughter spilled from the lobby.
Who the hell schedules a work conference in Hawaii?
Every major coffee chain in the country was here for the week—some eager, some predatory, all pretending they weren’t quietly calculating how to outlast everyone else.
If I had come with anyone else—literally anyone else—I’d probably be dancing barefoot in the sand, pleasantly buzzed and careless.
Instead, I was staring at myself in a mirror, preparing to stand beside Harrison Cross in a ballroom full of men who measured their worth by how many companies they’d devoured.
Sighing, I adjusted the straps of my dark gray dress and turned to the side. My matching stilettos featured a blood-rose charm, and I’d added a tiny skull to remind myself that this man was all but dead to me once we returned to Manhattan.
Do you really think he’ll sue me when I quit?
