Page 43 of Bossy Wicked Prince

Ah. “Okay.”

She opens her eyes. “Okay?”

“Yeah. It’s fine. We’ll just go to the right building.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Easy mistake, and you owned up to it. Now, we solve the problem.”

She lets out a long breath. “Right. Okay, let me just check my notes.”

Grabbing her phone, she skims through her emails with quick, deft finger strokes. She opens the last email from the CHG team and scrolls down to the bottom, finding the address. Thenshe’s in the map app, then adjusting the route and calculating the time we’re going to be late. She’s thumbing out a quick email to the main assistant email for the CHG team to let them know we’ll be a little late as she speaks.

“Okay. They’re at 280 Park Ave.” She presses the button to intercom the driver. “New destination,” she tells him. “280 Park, and go as quick as you can, please.”

Cat sets her phone on her lap and sinks back into her seat with a relieved sigh, but there’s still that glimmer of brightness in her eyes she gets when she’s in the zone.

“I can’t wait to see you do that again.”

She socks her head at me, curious. “Do what?”

“Be brilliant for me.”

She bites her lip in a way that goes straight to my cock, drumming her fingers absentmindedly on her armrest. “Well, we’re still going to be late with the traffic.”

I rub my thumb over her knee and revel in the way she shivers at my touch.

“They can wait.”

She smiles at me and then opens her padfolio to a to-do list she’s started for when we get back to the office in Toronto, plucking out a pink pen from a slot along the spine.

Be brilliant again,she writes at the very top, smirking as she underlines it twice.

14

CAT

“Finally showed up, huh?”

Four men in suits are waiting for us in the CHG conference room. All their ties are wide, red, and a little too bright to go well with their expensive suits. They look right at home in the dull gray conference room with its matching view of the gray, cloudy city.

“There’s coffee in the carafe if it’s not too cold already,” one man says.

“I was hoping to get in a round of golf later, but you seem to be running on your own schedule,” says another.

I can feel my face getting red. It’s true, traffic was just as bad in NYC as they say it is—we’re half an hour later than we were meant to be. But Nate doesn’t even flinch at their comments.

“Gentleman.” He extends his hand to the tallest one of them. “I didn’t realizegolfwas more important than this merger.”

He really just said that?

“I’m Kyle Ambrose,” the one he’s shaking hands with says, clearing his throat with an uncomfortable laugh. “The president here at CHG. This is Greg, Jaime, and Chris. And you must be…Nate the Late.”

“Hm,” Nate grunts, clearly unimpressed, back to his usual cold, detached, grump demeanor.

The other men chuckle like he’s said something clever. Nate looks as unbothered as ever, straightening his cuff links without acknowledging the jab.

A few leering gazes shift to me, and I shift on my feet, straightening up, trying to my best to look professional and poised.