Page 91 of The Truth of Us

Timothy’s hand moved toward the phone. “Mr. Vale…”

I reached for it, and he snatched it back. Which obviously meant it was her.

“Give me the phone,” I growled.

“No.”

“Timothy.”

“No.”

That fucking word.

I leaned over the desk; he leaned back, and for one ridiculous second we both froze, staring at each other across the glossy surface. Then I lunged. Not my finest moment. But that seems to be what I have been reduced to lately. There was a scramble of limbs, a sharp curse from Timothy, the sound of his chair rolling back, and then my hip hit the corner of his desk hard enough that his monitor tipped sideways and his keyboard crashed to the floor.

The office door opened, and Rowan stood in the doorway. He looked at me half sprawled across Timothy’s desk, at Timothy clutching his phone to his chest, at the keyboard on the floor, and then looked back at me. His face was … well, you can imagine. I was fairly sure I had finally broken him.

“Is this where we are now?” he asked.

Timothy adjusted his jacket with what I felt was unnecessary dignity. “Unfortunately.”

“He has her number,” I said, pointing at Timothy like a child tattling on a sibling.

Rowan sighed, a full-body, soul-leaving sigh. “Elliot.”

“He does.”

“I know,” he agreed.

“He’s hiding it.”

“I know,” he repeated.

“Make him give it to me.”

Rowan looked at Timothy. “Timothy.”

“Yes?” Now he looked scared, well, you should be…

“Continue hiding it.”

“Of course.”

I gaped at Rowan. “Traitor.”

Rowan jerked his chin toward the hall. “Out.”

“No.”

“Out.”

“I’m not a dog.” I totally freaked out, desperately trying to keep my composure.

“You’re acting like one.”

Timothy made a sound suspiciously close to a laugh. I pointed at him. “You’re on my list.”

Rowan grabbed the back of my jacket and hauled me out of Timothy’s office before I could say something that would get Northwell sued. Or before I tried for the phone again.