Page 53 of Point of Contention

Chapter Nineteen

Cabot

For five straight days, I waited for Rylan outside of Reed Tower, then walked with her to her second job at White Rabbit.

On Tuesday, I was met with a barely-there smile.

Wednesday, she finally accepted the latte I offered.

Thursday afternoon, she shared tidbits of her day with me, though short and sweet. As long as she was willing to speak, I’d listen, be it one-word responses or paragraphs. Beggars can’t be choosers, you know.

By Friday, we’d crossed a new threshold and she actually engaged in conversation that didn’t consist of growling or scoffing or general irritation. One-word responses were a thing of the past, and I was once again rewarded with listening to her rave passionately about romance novels.

When I left Rylan at the doorstep of White Rabbit for her Friday evening shift, then opened the door of my car idling at the curb, she shook her head in amusement. “You weren’t coming here at all, were you?”

I smirked and inclined my head. “Very astute observation, Ms. Blake. I think you know as well as I do what time I arrive at the Rabbit Hole each night.” With that, I ducked into the car and closed the door, watching her through the tinted glass as she tilted her head back and heaved a heavy sigh, then disappeared inside the lingerie store.

As Cole pulled the car away from the curb, I smiled.

The last words I’d left her with were a reminder of our time together, and how, every night, I’d show up promptly at ten o’clock to take her down into the underground sanctuary where I’d have my way with her.

Again and again and again.

I hoped the memory settled between her legs, a heavy ache that wouldn’t abate without my help.

My phone buzzed with an incoming call, so I pulled it out of my pocket, frowning at the name on the screen. After my father’s stunt with Landon Grant, I was rightfully wary.

I tapped the earbud to answer the call. “Marcellus, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Marcellus King was head of editorial at Hilltop Publishing, and a longtime friend from back in my Columbia days. We’d stayed in touch over the years, what with both of us finding successful careers within the publishing sector, but we didn’t correspond much outside of a few times a year for literary awards events and alumni galas.

“This is a courtesy call, old friend.”

I appreciated his ability to skip the pleasantries. “Go ahead.”

“It’s come to my attention that you might know one of our potential new hires. Her name is Rylan Blake?”

My stomach twisted uncomfortably. I breathed deeply and braced myself for what Ishouldhave expected, but was no less prepared for. Even after returning to Reed Romance to finish out her internship, Rylan was looking for work.Which meant she didn’t intend to stay with Reed Romance once her remaining seven weeks were up.

Staring out the window as Cole guided the town car through the city, I fought against the fresh ache blooming in my chest. I shouldn’t have assumed she’d want to stay with my company.

I shouldn’t have hoped.

Hope is for those who cannot create their own destiny.

Hope is for the weak.

“Cabot?”

I shook my head and pulled my gaze away from the window. “Since when does the head of editorial concern himself with new hires?”

“Since the applicant is the fiancé of an old friend.”

“Ah.” I nodded, but didn’t correct him. “She’s an incredible woman,” I said without thinking.

He chuckled. “I’ve gathered as much.” He paused, then added, “What’s she doing applying for a pencil-pushing job when she’s engaged to the golden boy of New York publishing?”

I sighed. I couldn’t keep the truth under wraps for long. “We’re not engaged.”

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