From Neglected Wife to CEO’s Obsession novel Chapter 180

Ryan drove, Blake called shotgun, and I was stuck in the back with Elliot.

Seriously, what was Blake—head of Legal—doing tagging along everywhere? If he’d stayed behind, I could’ve taken the passenger seat and avoided getting frozen by the backseat AC.

And don’t even get me started on our boss. Was he secretly an air conditioner? Dude seemed to think blasting cold air was his life’s calling.

The Capital to Georgia Bay was about a thousand kilometers—eight or nine hours by car. If we’d just flown, we’d be there in under three hours, comfy and quick. But no, my dear boss decided we were driving.

It was six in the evening. If everything went perfectly, we’d roll into the city around two in the morning.

The airport was way out in the suburbs, but our car sped down the highway without a hitch.

An hour in, I was starving—my palms were literally sweaty, and I felt like I might just keel over.

I started digging through my bag for some candy, when suddenly the car screeched to a halt. Ryan, ever the model employee, turned and announced, “Boss, we’re here.”

We’d stopped in front of a massive farmhouse restaurant.

The parking lot was packed, and the air was thick with the smell of home-cooked food. My mouth watered so hard it hurt.

Back in college, there was this tiny farmhouse diner behind the school. Just three tables, but the food was amazing and super cheap. I used to eat there at least twice a week.

Times have changed. Now rich people are all about “wellness”—some even move out to the country, and those who can’t get enough of farmhouse cooking.

I never would’ve guessed that someone as high-and-mighty as Elliot would pick a place this down-to-earth.

Ryan, always ready to mediate, cleared his throat and said, “Ms. Greenwood, Mr. Swanson isn’t a fan of onions or garlic.”

If he didn’t like onions and garlic, why even come to a farmhouse restaurant? And let’s be real—eggplant and potato stew without those just isn’t the same.

Sure, they’re strong flavors, but that’s what mints are for after dinner.

“Oh? So if our boss eats onions or garlic, is it an allergy thing? Or are we talking full-on medical emergency here?” I teased.

Blake puffed out his cheeks, turned his head away from Elliot, and shot me a secret thumbs-up.

Ryan looked helpless, sneaking a glance at Elliot, who sat there all stoic. “No, Ms. Greenwood. Mr. Swanson just doesn’t care for strong flavors. He’s not allergic, and nothing dangerous will happen. Honestly, other than girls, we haven’t found anything Mr. Swanson’s actually allergic to.”