Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
He offers me a sincere smile. “I’m sorry to hear—”
“Don’t be. He’s a jerk and a liar.”
“I could have told you that and saved you the tears. If you want, we can go out. Have a drink.”
The last thing I need is alcohol. “Thanks, but I’m going to head home. There’s also a good chance I won’t be returning to work—for real this time.”
Kyle nods. “Well, here’s my number. If you ever want to get a drink, call me.” He takes my phone and enters his contact info.
“Thanks, I will.” I hug him, and we go our separate ways. When I get to my apartment, I do what I should have done three days ago—type up my resignation letter, effective immediately, and email it to Theresa. I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to push it through. I can’t be here, so I pack an overnight bag and leave. By the time I knock on the door, I’m emotionally broken.
The door opens, and the dam finally bursts.
“Mom. . .”
“Oh, honey, come here.” Cradling me to her chest, she brings me inside. “Gerald! I think you need to get your gun!”
Chapter twenty-six
Theo
I pace my office, looking at the clock every two seconds. Where the hell is she?
There’s a knock, and I whip around. “You’re late—”
“Oh, I didn’t know you were waiting for—”
“Get the fuck out of my office!” The kid turns around and almost knocks himself out on the door before catching himself and exiting.
She’s late. Again. She’s doing this to get back at me. If I’d known my father had planned to show up at that disaster of a birthday celebration with Alana on his arm, I would’ve left early. It smelled like a setup. A message. And he sure fucking sent it.
I wipe my hand down my face, guilt tearing at me. The way she looked at me. At Alana. If she only knew. You could have told her. She would have understood. She would have left me sooner. I wanted to pull her into my arms and kiss away that sadness I know I caused, and I fucking hate myself. But that bullshit she pulled. . . the kiss. . . I’ll murder that little punk.
I glance at the clock and snatch up my phone, hitting the extension for the receptionist.
“Morning, Mr.—”
“Where the fuck is Miss Evans?”
“Oh god, not this again,” she mutters.
“Not what again?” I snap.
“She. . . um. . . she quit.”
“She didn’t quit.” She knows better.
“Yeah. She did.”
She wouldn’t dare. She’s mine for the next eight days—enough time to figure out how to make her mine permanently. “Well, she’s not allowed to quit. Call and tell her she better get her ass in here.” I hang up, bashing the receiver onto the base.
She’s not fucking quitting. I need her here. Now. My hands shake. I take a deep breath and hold it, trying to compose myself.
One. Two. Th—
“Fuck this.” Grabbing my cell, I hit her contact. It goes straight to voicemail.
“This little stunt is going to cost you. You’re mine for eight more goddamn days. Get to the fucking office!” I hang up.
Five minutes pass, and I redial. Voicemail again. “This is childish. Get into work, or I’ll follow through with my threats.” I hang up.
I don’t even wait long before I call her back. “This is ridiculous. At least answer my damn call.” Every second that passes, I lose more patience. Finally, I snap, storming out of my office and past reception.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Monroe. I can’t seem to get in touch—”
“Cancel all my meetings. I won’t be returning.”
“But—”
Twenty minutes later, I’m outside Fay’s apartment, my fist to her door. “Fay! Open the damn door! I’m not leaving until you—”
“She’s not home, so you can stop disrupting the entire building.”
I turn as a guy walks up the stairs. “How the hell do you know?”
“I passed her last night when I was coming in. She was leaving and had a pretty big bag. I’m guessing she’s not planning on coming back for a while.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“Nope.” The guy disappears down the hall to his apartment, and I take out my phone and dial her number one more time. “Call me. . . please.” This time I can’t keep the tremble from my voice, my frustration turning into worry.
Chapter twenty-seven
Fay
Three smelly, pathetic days later. . .
A loud clanking stirs me awake. I drag my arms up, my palms slapping over my ears.
“You’re doing so great, honey.”
“I think I see a muscle forming.”
My hands do nothing to block out the noise. Jesus, not this again. I lift my blanket and peel an eye open. “Any chance you two can tone it down a notch?” My mother looks down at me, her hands on her hips. And she’s wearing that ridiculous workout jumpsuit again.
“Well, look who’s finally awake. Thinking about getting out of bed today?”