19
WHITTON
“Colton, get in here,” I called from my desk on Monday morning.
He toed the door open and shuffled across the floor as if he were walking to his death sentence. “What?”
Oh, poor surly teenager.
“Where’s my coffee?”
“Probably still in the pot.”
My eyes caught his. Defiance was in his irises.
My assistant had messaged me privately to say that Colton was in a “mood” today. I knew exactly why he was acting like this. Consequences to his actions from this weekend. But it wasn’t fair to take it out on my assistant or me because he’d f****d up.
“Do you think this is going to make anything better?”
He shrugged and slumped into the chair in front of my desk. “I don’t know.”
“What happened after I left?”
He crossed his arms over his chest and stared out the windows. “Got yelle
