“I can’t deny it’s a perk.” He stands up. “Be downstairs in fifteen minutes.”
I take one bite then ignore the food. Truman would have loved it, and how can I eat when my dog is in danger? How can I sleep in McCarthy’s luxurious guest room when Nathan has Truman trapped somewhere? I bet he put him in his kennel. Truman hates being locked up.
As I dress, I come to the sickening realization that this isn’t actually a guest room.
This ishisroom. His clothes in the closet. His fancy cologne on the bathroom vanity. His watch casually lying on the dresser.
Why did McCarthy put me in here?
I jump when the door opens. McCarthy wordlessly hands me the little pink organizer I use for my hair stuff.
“Thanks… um…” I look around the room. “Where did, um… Where did you sleep?”
“I didn’t.” He’s curt as he leaves.
After getting dressed, I give up on trying to comb out the knots and pin my hair up into a messy bun. I pause on the stair landing and look out over the penthouse.
The living room looks like the Hulk has had a tantrum. Amongst the wreckage are my things—not tossed, though, but laid out to dry.
“Is that my stand mixer?”
McCarthy is standing among the wreckage, waiting at the bottom of the stairs. His face darkens when he sees me. “Hurry up.”
I want to ask him—why?
Why did you rescue me?
Why did you bring me all my stuff?
Why do you care about me?
He doesn’t care about you,I remind myself viciously.You know exactly who McCarthy is. He likes to win, and this is a huge win.
I look stupid, and he gets to flaunt how right he was. That’s it.
“Come on.” He jerks his head.
“I can’t.”
He blinks at me.
I say in a rush, “I mean, of course I’m not going to let my personal issues get in the way of working on your PR plan. It’s just that I have to meet with a lawyer and talk to the police about getting Truman back. There’s going to be a custody battle and—”
“I didn’t care about the PR plan yesterday, and I don’t care about it today. We’re leaving to go get your dog.”
“I don’t thinkwe can just walk in here…”
McCarthy doesn’t stop at the front desk of the ZyloPay offices. He brushes past the security guard, who yells, “ID! You have to sign in!”
He just walks in like he owns the place, long wool coat swirling around him. He’s not the motorcycle-riding grim reaper. Now he’s the CEO of war, not a hair out of place.
“Sorry! I’ll send over some pastries!” I call to the receptionist as McCarthy sweeps by and barges into the first office.
He looks around as the shocked analyst clutches her necklace.
“So, so sorry about this,” I apologize, closing her door behind McCarthy as he stalks out.
McCarthy is all predator drone as he scans the start-up office, the shocked employees watching as the impossibly huge man strides through the rows of desks.
