“Anyway.” Vivian turns to me. “I talked to the CEO of the hotel as well as the owner of the restaurant. It turns out that Ivan has a laundry list of complaints no one was doing anything about.”

My stomach twists at the mere mention of his name. I never want to think about him again.

“Viv, I thought we agreed no lawyer talk?” Morgan narrows her eyes to her wife.

“I know, I know,” Vivian says. “I just want Olivia to know that she’s a priority. And not just because Asher calls me about it twelve times a day, but because it’s a matter I’m passionate about.”

“I appreciate it, Vivian,” I say. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

Literally.

I can’t ever repay her.

Her retainer is probably my salary for the next ten years.

They let us in the school a few minutes after nine, and we walk up three flights of stairs until we reach the auditorium, which looks exactly like a lecture hall at a university. In fact, the whole school resembles a college—a privately funded college. Everything is crisp and clean and in tip-top condition. The heat here? It actually works. I remember the days at my elementary school when we had to wear our jackets all day. I bet they have a salad bar here. And a frozen yogurt machine.

“Oh, Olivia! We should switch,” Morgan says as she follows Asher into the second row of seats. Before I can put up a fight, she squeezes by me to grab the seat next to Vivian.

And me…

Well, I now have to share an armrest with Asher.

I’ve shared a car with him. A hotel room. A couch. A bed. And yet nothing has made me as nervous as this. Us in an auditorium. Separated by an armrest. Next to his sister. In front of his niece. I might break out in hives.

“Ash, why are you being so quiet?” Morgan leans over to look Asher in his super broody eyes.

“I’m not,” he says.

“You’ve said all of two words since getting here.”

“Some of us don’t talk to hear our own voice, Morgan.”

“Ugh, you’re such a bear,” she says, collapsing back into her chair. “I don’t know how you work with him, Olivia. You should be sworn into sainthood.”

Pretty sure saints don’t let their boss touch their butt.

Thank God the rest of the auditorium is making conversation because we’re suffocating in silence over here. Asher hasn’t complained once about my breathing or my shaking leg, which is a Christmas miracle in and of itself. Asher’s favorite thing to do is complain.

Mostly about me.

“Why are you shaking?” he whispers.

Damn. That lasted long.

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are?”

“I’m cold.”

“Do you want my jacket?”

“No, I’m fine.”