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“I’ll probably have a bruise, but I’m fine.” I get my feet under me. My gut aches when I stand up. My right shoe is sprawled on the hallway carpet. I flip it upright with my toes and step in. That ankle feels weak. Sore. I put on a smile. “You guys are probably starving. What can I make for dinner?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Will
Nobody at the office wants to look at me.
It’s probably a sign that Sinclair was right. I should have called out the rest of the week.
But fuck him. He knows as well as I do that the bruises will look worse before they look better.
I’m not missing Bristol’s last two days because I got my ass kicked. My vision is almost back to normal. I don’t want to throw up in the shower.
Getting to the office at seven felt more like torture than a normal workday, but I don’t care.
There’s plenty to catch up on. Contracts that need my approval. Deals to vet. A string of emails from Greg about the merger.
Our lawyers were busy while Sinclair woke me up all goddamn day and night. They’ve translated all my demands into legalese. There’s a section just for the superyacht.
And a note in an email from Greg.
Included all your requirements for company culture, hiring, etc. Added a clause that gives you the option to transfer management and infrastructure to us at any point.
It has a knowing tone to it that frankly I fucking hate. It’s a wink to the idea that I’m going to want to climb aboard my new superyacht the second the ink is dry on the documents and sail off to the Bahamas. Or Paris.
That’s the last thing I want to do. I want it even less than I want to take orders from Finn Hughes.
People move back and forth outside my office door. Christa’s the first one to risk it.
She pauses on the other side of the desk, looking at me the same way she’d look at a balance sheet covered in red ink. “Jesus, Leblanc.”
“The Prince of Peace had nothing to do with it.”
“Tell me the guy who did that to you got carted away in a cop car.”
“He didn’t, because I won. And stop staring.”
She narrows her eyes. “Should you even be here? There’s no way in hell you’re supposed to be looking at a computer screen.”
“It’s fine. The business won’t run itself.”
It’s not that fine, actually. The light from the screen feels like sand in my eyes and an ache in my skull. That could also be from the bruising.
“We could’ve handled things for the rest of the week.”
I turn my head back to the computer and catch her wincing out of the corner of my eye. “It’s not going to be a problem.”
Christa taps her fingernails against her mug. Red fingernail polish flashes in my peripheral vision and the ceramic click click click has an echo that makes my head hurt more. “Did you respond to Hughes yet?”
“I’m about to. Anything else you need me to look at first?”
My CFO hesitates. Click click click. “Nope. I’ll be in my office.”
“Good.”
She leaves, and I stare at my email for another ten minutes. It hurts. The concussion’s the least of it. Where the hell is Bristol?
Another five minutes go by. She’s officially three minutes late.
