Chapter 11: The Intervention

Leona's POV

Ansel came to my office at ten the next morning, which he had never done.

He carried the old bag, the one with the tape on the strap.

"I told Barrett no," he said. "Last night, in his kitchen."

"I figured."

"You were asleep."

"I woke up when you got home," I said. "You sat on the edge of the bed for an hour."

His mouth twitched.

"He said I had to choose," Ansel said.

"And?"

"I'm standing in your office, aren't I?"

I got up and came around the desk.

I put my arms around his waist, in front of my own assistant, who dropped a stapler.

That was term two, broken in a glass-walled office on the eleventh floor.

I did not care.

I had my face in his shirt when the elevator opened down the hall.

A voice I knew said, "Leona! Don't get up!"

Barrett came around the corner at the head of a small parade.

Behind him walked the hotel heir, the yacht heir, and a woman in a lavender cardigan carrying a flip chart.

"We're here on a wellness matter," Barrett said. "Is there a room?"

"There's a conference room," I said. "It has a lock."

"Perfect."

I should have used the lock.

I put them in Conference B because it was the nearest door and because I was too curious.

Barrett sat at the head of the table, where I'd have put a person who was going to be firing someone.

The woman in the cardigan set up the flip chart and wrote, in green marker, ANSEL: AN ATTACHMENT CONVERSATION.

"I'm a licensed mediator," she told me kindly. "Nobody's in trouble."

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