Page 93 of Bossy Wicked Prince

I could do it, too. The police rely on UPS’s cooperation in investigations way too much to piss me off.

“You have my card if you need any more information,” I say, guiding the officer toward the elevator.

James waits to speak until he’s gone. “Do you want me to give the guys a summary on what happened?”

“Please, yeah.” I already know that Luke, Ryan, and Beau will have thousand questions and demands for details. Letting James field them is more than a small favor.

James puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. “I’m glad she’s alright. She’s a good woman.”

I’m too shocked by the compliment to answer. It’s just a few words of approval, but coming from James, that’s practically a declaration of love. He’s even more reticent than I am to show his approval of anyone.

Then James narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t you have work to do?” he asks coolly.

There’s the James I know—an emotionally-stunted workaholic, confused at why anyone else wouldn’t be as committed to their job as he is to his.

“I’ll get out of your hair,” I promise, heading to the elevator and pressing the button for the UPS floor.

For the first time I can remember, I don’t want to go to the office. Not because I’m avoiding work, but because I want to be there with Cat when she wakes up. Maybe I could order in breakfast for her, or even risk trying to make her toast and scrambled eggs.

But I shouldn’t. She probably wants space today after everything that happened with Harry. Besides, I have work to do.

Work that’ll be significantly less interesting without my assistant. I left Cat a note ordering her to take another day off—even if some twisted part of me wishes she’d ignore that note and visit me anyway. She needs the rest.

I’m already in a bad mood when I stride into my office, but it immediately gets worse.

Because my mother is already there, waiting for me.

She’s wearing her usual outfit of a silk blouse and pressed trousers, complete with tasteful designer heels and pearl earrings. Her gray-streaked hair is perfectly swept back into an elegant updo, and her makeup is flawless.

Mom taught me early that appearances matter. The owners of UPS should look the part. She would never allow me to leave the house with a hair out of place, even as a kid. She looks me up and down carefully, even though I know my suit is flawlessly pressed and styled.

“What are you doing here, Mom?” I ask.

Her brows arch. “I’m here to see the CEO of the company I own. I expected him to be in the office during business hours. Apparently, that doesn’t matter to him.”

Nothing like an Eleanor Walsh ambush to put a cherry on top of this disastrous morning. I could explain that I was busy giving a statement to the police, but I doubt that would satisfy her. “I’m here now,” I say instead. “What brings you into the office, when you could have just called?”

“I’m here in person so you know how seriously concerned I am, Nathaniel. As a board member, and as your mother.”

Fuck. I need a cup of coffee before I can deal with this conversation. I take a seat behind my desk and keep my expression even. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the rumors that my son is not only spending time with his assistant outside of work hours, he’s actually screwing her!”

Blood rushes in my ears. How dare she talk about Cat like that, like she’s some cheap whore playacting as my assistant instead of a competent employee.

But do I really expect any better from Eleanor? There’s not a kind bone in her body. She’s made of ice, silicone, and Chanel No. 5.

Instead of acknowledging her accusations, I just say, “If this is about the Edmonton deal, you have nothing to worry about.”

“So the rumors aren’t true? They’re not rethinking the deal because of yourrelationshipwith your assistant?”

“I have a call with them later today. The deal should be going ahead as planned.” I spoke with the heads of Edmonton Security almost immediately after my call with the Globe reporter. It took a certain amount of finessing, but I managed to convince them that my relationship with Cat is purely professional. “Where did you even hear about this?”

“From that horrible gossip blog, the Toronto Tea,” she says, her nose scrunching like she’s just smelled something awful. “Cat’s probably selling them information. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before everything about your life is published there, thanks to her.”

“She doesn’t need to sell anything, Mom. She signed an NDA like all our employees, and I pay her well enough to begin with.”

“How well do you even know this woman? How do you know she isn’t just with you for your money? God forbid, is she on birth control? If you got her pregnant?—”