Page 27 of The Heiress's First Date

Ford: Bring Kingston.

Katherine: If he’s in town.

It’s my standard line about King.

Ford: Don’t act like he’s not holed up in your apartment.

I grin and turn my attention back to my email, crossing and uncrossing my legs as I go through my inbox. Nothing feels normal.

I smirk to myself.

Maybe this is my new normal. Leaving the bed in the morning, well-used and with a swat on the ass, feeling the hungry gaze of my men as I make my exit. I could get used to it.

I probably shouldn’t because the shit would truly hit the fan if word got out that I was in a relationship with three men. But that truth didn’t stop me last night, and I doubt it’ll stop me in the future.

The three of them are like a drug, and I forget common sense when they look at me.

My phone buzzes, and I reach for it. Speak of the devil.

Kingston: we’re all walking funny this morning.zany face

I suppose that’s what we get for the multiple rounds. It’s going to take me a gallon of water to rehydrate. Definitely need to get Charlotte on that. Meanwhile, I sip my tea, put my phone down, and try to get a handle on my to-do list.

After exactly three items are jotted down, my phone buzzes again. I glance over. A notification bubble flashes across the top of the screen, displaying a message from Charlotte.

Charlotte: Mom incoming. *skull emoji*

Sighing, I sit back in my chair, not the least bit surprised.

I swipe the message away, sending it into the ether. Call it a sixth sense, but I quickly navigate to my voice memo app and hit record before placing my phone face down beneath my monitor.

A knot of dread sits heavy in my stomach. It sinks deeper as my mother crosses my threshold. Like I’m in the ocean and a wave has snuck up behind me, slamming me in the back and knocking my feet out from under me before dropping on my head.

The head of Human Resources is right behind her. She nods to Charlotte, who closes the door behind them.

Not a friendly chat, then.

Then again, when have my mother and I ever had friendly chats?

“Hello, Mother. Ms. McKune. What can I do for you?” I wave a hand toward the chairs across from my desk.

My mother holds up a hand and they both remain standing. “This won’t take long.”

See. Not friendly.

“Okay.”

“Given your latest,” she waves her fingers like she’s shooing away a fly, “adventure, I’ve spoken with the board?—”

She pauses, letting the word hang in the air between us like a four-day-old helium balloon. My stomach sours, and my mouth goes dry, but I keep my mask carefully in place.Show no emotion. Don’t let them see you sweat.

There’s a flicker of challenge in my mother’s eyes because she wants—no, expects—me to fold. To cave and scamper, falling in line as I always have.

But the pause stretches long enough that Ms. McKune steps in. “The board would like you to take some personal time.”

My gaze flicks to the middle-aged HR rep. “Personal time.”

The heat in my veins shifts, the blood slows, and it’s as if ice moves through me. Sharp. Jagged. Freezing. My toes curl in my beloved Jimmy Choos.

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