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Fuck.
Fuck.
I watch as they walk out together, unsure if that woman is his girlfriend, a friend, or his receptionist. But surely you wouldn’t bring a receptionist to buy lingerie? Then again, I know nothing of Dawson Taylor.
But more importantly, I’m left wondering if I should quit.
CHAPTER 8
Dawson
Ifeel Daphne watching me.
She was silent while in the car as if expecting me to talk, which I didn’t.
“She was nice. Who is she?” Daphne asks.
“No one.”
“Must be a pretty amazing no one from the way you were eye fucking her.” She laughs.
“I was not,” I say under my breath as we walk back into my office.
“Oh, you totally were. So, do you know her well?”
I sigh, realizing she isn’t going to let it go.
“If you must know, I met her in Italy,” I grit out.
“Ohhh… that explains a lot.”
“How?” I ask.
She takes a seat on my office chair and kicks her feet up under her as she rummages through her bag. “Sinceyou’ve been back, you haven’t wanted sex, and if I’m not mistaken, you also got a tattoo.” She eyes me.
“Feeling lonely, Daphne? I’m surprised you’re keeping track of our sex. And how do you know about the tattoo?”
She gives me her best eye roll.
“When you came back and I visited you, you got out of bed naked, like you usually do, before you told me to go home. I saw it then.” She shrugs. “I didn’t really understand it until I saw you eye fucking the innocent little Italian flavor now working at your store. Pretty special to have her lips on you, huh?”
Tension ripples through my jaw at her calling my little honeypot a flavor. She is more than that.
The tattoo had been an irrational choice. I wasn’t entirely drunk when I got it and I don’t understand why I did it. I just know what happened in that closet left a mark.Sheleft a mark. Something I didn’t want to forget. But I can’t figure out its significance or depth.
“You can leave now, Daphne.”
“Do you think she needs friends? I mean, she’s from Italy, right? She probably doesn’t have many friends if she's new in town. She could easily be a model herself.” She’s speaking absentmindedly as she finally finds the lip gloss she’s apparently been fishing for this whole time. “And I’m curious by anything that gains your attention,” she adds before swiping a layer of thick gloss on her lips and checking it in a small mirror, satisfied with thered sheen.
“You plan to be her friend, and what? Tell her you fuck me but can’t talk about it because it could get you sued or killed?”
She chuckles and kicks out from the chair. “Please. She knows we fuck. I saw the way she watched us walk out. That woman was mad. And if you want to pursue a contract with her, you might want to clarify that our relationship is purely mutually beneficial.” She snaps her clutch shut.
I never intended to make her mad.
My little honeypot is mad.
Interesting.And I look for these signs—it’s part of my job. But when it comes to her, everything is different.
