"Don't test me on this, Sebastian," he threatens.

"Dad—"

"Call your mother today and let her know what your decision is," he orders, then hangs up.

I slap the steering wheel several times, miss a red light, and run right through it. A siren wails, and I glance in the rearview mirror. I groan and pull over.

A cop parks behind me, gets out of his vehicle, then gives me a ticket and a stern lecture.

I barely hear a word. When he releases me, I drive another block, enter my office building, and step off the elevator on the top floor. I turn the corner toward my office and groan inside.

I forgot about her.

Georgia's at her desk. She crosses, then uncrosses her legs. The pencil skirt she's wearing hits mid-thigh when she's seated. Her blouse is buttoned up, but a peek of her cleavage shows through.

My raging hard-on returns, and that's before she looks up at me, beaming.

She drawls, "Good morning, Mr. Cartwright. How was your night?"

"Fine," I grumble, then go into my office and close the door. I step toward my desk and freeze.

Goddamn her.

I reach for the gold-frosted cupcake that has a plastic turkey stuck in it. The scent of sugar flares in my nostrils, and I almost cave before I toss it in the trash.

Don't need empty calories, I tell myself.

Doesn't she know sugar and carbs only turn to fat?

I don't need to add time to my workout to work off her baked goods.

I glance through the glass.

How does she keep those curves, baking all the time?

I spend hours burying myself in work, trying to forget about the conversation earlier with my father, until he texts me.

Dad: Why haven't you called your mother yet?

Me: I'm working.

Dad: You have ten minutes to call her, or I'm going to tell your brother he's the new CEO.

What the fuck is his problem? My brother doesn't even want to be CEO.

Maybe he does.

What if things have changed?

And all of a sudden, now he wants extra responsibility?

My inner demons fight me. New anxiety explodes within me like fireworks.

My father texts me again.

Dad: Two minutes.

I cave and pick up the phone, calling my mother.

She answers, "Sebastian! How are you, dear?"

I lie, "I'm good, Mom."

"Are you calling to tell me you're coming home for Thanksgiving?" she asks wishfully.

I grimace, unable to believe what's about to come out of my mouth. "No. I still can't come. I've got a lot of work to do here."

Disappointment fills her voice. She lays on the guilt. "Oh, honey, I really wish that you'd make time for us. Please tell me you're coming home for Christmas."

I take a deep breath and stare out at the Dallas skyline, forcing myself to reply, "That's what I'm calling to talk to you about."

Hope fills her tone. "Oh?"