Page 63 of Bottles & Blades

“Legal have a look at this?” I ask.

She nods. “All good on their end—terms favor Mel by a whole hell of a lot, but that’s what the asshole gets.”

I don’t disagree as I scroll through the pages on my tablet, highlighting one word change before approving the rest of it. “Is Tiff good?”

Marie frowns. “I’ve been working on the contract, but the last I saw, your office was empty.” A beat. “I thought maybe, since you got held up, you told her to go home.”

I grind my teeth together. “No. I didn’t say that.” My words are terse, but I don’t take out my frustration on Marie, just turn on my heel and move down the hall to my office, Marie’s heels clicking as she walks beside me.

I push through the door, worry snaking through my insides.

Worry that’s doused when I see the stack of notecards on the table.

Not gone—or I have a good excuse to go after her again if she is.

I move to my desk, look for a note, and finding none, I move back out into the hall, pivot for the elevators.

I’m stopped by Donnie’s voice. “Mr. Dubois?”

“Yeah, Don?” I ask, pausing by his desk.

“I didn’t get a chance to order Tiffany’s food…”

I frown.

“…because Chrissy and Rory were here,” he finishes. “They took her down to the cafe about an hour ago.”

Relief hits hard.

And then is quickly trailed by more worry.

ChrissyandRory?

With Tiff?

“Shit,” I mutter.

I turn to Marie. “I’m taking the rest of the day off. Fix that contract, get it signed, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

To her credit, she just nods. “On it.”

“Thanks,” I tell her and Donnie, and move to the elevator.

But when I jab the button and the door doesn’t immediately open, I decide, fuck it, and head for the stairwell, yanking open the door and pounding down the steps, my heart twisting.

I love Chrissy and Rory, know they’re kind and lovely women.

But they’re also highly protective of me.

And Tiff is sweet and shy and…

Christ, what if they scared her off?

“Mr. Dubois?—”

I smile at my employee—Mitch, I think is his name—but don’t pause as I finish the last flight of stairs, brush by him, and push out onto the floor. I keep my gaze on the cafe’s door, doing my best to not stumble into any interactions that might delay me.

“Mr. Dubois,” a woman begins, and while I want to ignore her and push through the glass doors less than five feet ahead, there’s something in her voice that stops me.

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