Page 122 of Playboy Pitcher

Jack looks about as comfortable as I do right now. Probably because his ass will be hitting the happy trails right behind me.

Drake fired him five minutes ago.

I wish I could say I feel sorry for him, but I don’t. I have no sympathy for morons who do the devil’s work and then act all shocked when he shoves that pitchfork right up their ass once the blood dries.

“This is the original contract, along with a few addendums.”

I really fucking hate that word.

I flip through my copy of the contract, searching through a list of bullshit clauses with one notable absence. “Where’s the one that guarantees Ben his permanent salary?”

Drake lifts an eyebrow. “Oh, that? I decided against it.”

“You can’t do that!” I yell, shoving the papers in his face. “We had a deal!”

A cruel smirk spreads across his face. “And you had one with LaCroix. It seems we both can have a change of heart.”

My hands shake with rage. Just like that, my safety net for Ben is gone. The one hope I held in all this darkness flickers out. I’d give him every penny I have in return, but that would almost be an insult. The little I have left couldn’t match the loss of a multi-million-dollar contract.

“As you can see, I’ve already signed it,” Drake points out, gesturing to the illegible scribble. “You’re up to bat. Don’t miss.”

“I hate you,” I breathe.

“Aw, princess…” Taking another sip of champagne, he winks. “The feeling is very mutual. Now, sign it.”

The pen feels heavy in my hand. I can’t see the damn line on the paper for the tears threatening to spill down my face.No. I won’t give him the satisfaction.My fingers shake as I sign the first three letters of my name.

“Any day now would be nice.”

Shooting him a lethal glare out of the corner of my eye, I grit my teeth and try to remember why I’m doing this.For Emma. It’s all for Emma.She’ll understand one day.

I hope.

Just as I finish my first name, the conference room door flies open. “Willow, don’t you dare sign a goddamn thing.”

Twisting around, I gasp as shock funnels through my body like a cyclone. “Ben?”

He looks like I feel. His thick dark hair is wild and chaotic, as if the strands themselves were abused into submission. Dark circles form half-moons underneath bloodshot eyes that have obviously seen too little sleep. But it’s his white T-shirt that catches most of my attention, drenched with sweat and clinging to his chest as if he ran all the way back from New York.

He’s never looked more perfect.

“Of course,” Drake mutters, setting the crystal flute onto the table as he rises to his feet, buttoning his suit jacket. Flashing Ben a triumphant smile, he gestures to an empty seat. “You’re welcome to join the party, LaCroix, but I wouldn’t push me if I were you.”

The fire in Ben’s eyes could melt the sun. “Funny, I was about to say the same thing to you.” Casting a sweeping glance around the table, Ben nods toward the door. “Gentlemen, if you’ll please excuse us.”

I have no idea what the hell is happening. I don’t know why Ben is here, or how he got past the security guards.

Jack, Ned, and the few lawyers in the room exchange confused glances before slowly rising from their chairs.

“Sit the fuck down,” Drake snaps, his fists tightening by his side as he glares at Ben. “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, LaCroix, but you don’t have any power here to be handing out orders.”

Ben strolls inside the conference room, his mouth tugging up in a private smile, those dimples sinking deep into his cheeks. Letting out an annoyed sigh, he shrugs and drops a manilla folder on the table beside me. “Well, they’re welcome stay, but I don’t think you want them here for what I have to say, Drake.” He glances back at the folder, sitting on the table like a bomb ready to explode. “Of course, it’s up to you. Youarethe boss.”

A tense silence pings around the room. Drake stares at Ben, his jaw ticking away the seconds as a line of sweat beads across his forehead. “Get out.”

It’s as if someone suddenly pumps Ben full of helium and confidence. He stands straighter and taller, pushing his shoulders back and commanding the room as each man shuffles out the double doors.

When the last one leaves, I look up at him. “What’s this about?”