Page 71 of Breaking His Law

*goat emoji* *poop emoji*

Me

Not you too.

Mom

I wish I had been there to see your face.

25

NATHAN

I walk out of the elevator and toward my awaiting limousine, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. “Good morning, Jenkins.”

Although the surprising spring in my step I feel is justified because it’s another day closer to the ball on Friday and I’m already wishing it was the big night because I want to spend more time with Arianna outside of work.

“Good morning, Mr. Hart.” He opens the door and I climb in.

I pull my laptop out of my work bag, relieved that there will be no goat yoga today.

What the hell was Arianna thinking? My new shorts were gnawed to death by one of the goats that took a liking to me and stood on my back the entire time I did something called a cat-cow pose. When it screamed in my ear I almost shitted myself. Just like it did. All over my back.

Never again.

Although I did sleep better last night. Seven full hours of undisturbed sleep and I feel like a new man.

Just like yesterday, the car stops earlier than planned and Jenkins is opening my door before I can blink.

Is this fucking Groundhog Day?

“Where are we?” I ask tentatively, looking at the sign above the door we are sitting outside of, trying to figure out what the hell she has planned for me today.

“The Singing Bowl, sir.”

“Do you know what’s waiting inside for me today?”

“I’m afraid I don’t, sir, no.” His lips twitch.

Yes, he does.

“Ms. Donovan is?—”

“Inside, yes, I figured.” I walk up to the entrance and step inside and the same as yesterday, Arianna is waiting for me but today she’s wearing one of her work dresses.

“Don’t tell me, you’re not staying?” I ask dryly.

“How did you guess?”

“What do you have planned for me today?”

“Laughter therapy.”

This is bullshit. “I?—”

I get railroaded, blindsided more like, by a jolly guy who is as wide as he is tall. “Fantastic. You’re here, Mr. Hart. It’s wonderful to meet you. I’m Rusty and you’ll be with me today. This way.” He leads me by my arm, clutching me tight, as if trying to keep me in place from fear I might run away. Which I want to do.

Rusty continues. “Now, laughter therapy is…”

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