"YOU TOLD THEM THAT?" Grayson managed finally, each word measured against the tight coil of panic in his chest.
Mailah shrugged with breezy, infuriating confidence. "Yeah. They deserve to celebrate something. You survived seven days without turning Jonathan from logistics into a puddle on the conference-room floor. That's worth a cake."
He could have argued that seven days was a statistical blip, an anomaly propped up by Dr. Morrison's intermittent elixirs and a ridiculous jar with bills rattling in it.
Instead he found himself saying, "Very well. Eight o'clock."
Her grin was victorious. "Perfect. Dress code: business—less threatening."
Two hours later, Grayson stood outside Rosario's private dining room, straightening his tie for the fifth time in as many minutes.
