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LIV
“Babe, did you book that appointment for me?” Through narrowed eyes, I glance over the laptop I’m working on and up at Miles, who runs his thick fingers through his long blond hair like the bad boy badass he wants to be. “I gotta keep those Benjamins flowin’ in my bank account this month.”
“How many more times are you gonna ask me?” My tone is unamused, exasperated, annoyed, and hinting toward don’t ask me again today. “Do you set a timer on your phone to run up here to bug me again?”
“I didn’t ask earlier,” he pledges, but this is a merry-go-round that he and I ride frequently. Miles remembers nothing and asks me everything.
“Check your calendar that I take the time out of my day to sync every time there’s a change.”
Miles gives me one of those sly little smirks that tells me all I need to know.
He’s not looking, and he’s not going to.
“C’mon, Liv. You’re right there.” He points to the laptop, but I’m a bit more stubborn than that.
“And so are you,” I retort flatly. “Check your phone.”
“It’s in my room.”
“Then take a walk.”
“Livy—” My nose promptly scrunches because I hate that nickname, and he sighs as if I’m the one being a pain in the ass here. “Will you please check?”
“Why? Did you want to take another brunette to Vegas this weekend?” I quirk a brow, knowing that’s exactly how he blew all his money two weekends ago. She’s a regular, someone who comes in every few months to get yet another tattoo and to get fucked into next week Sunday by the thirty-year-old rockstar persona standing before me.
“Nah, figured I’d move to blondes. You interested?” He mocks my expression, then wiggles his eyebrows as if that’s going to sway me any.
It doesn’t.
Been there, done that. Got pregnant.
Besides, Miles and I don’t roll like that. He flirts; I ignore. We have a system.
“I will be when you start catching a clue on how to check your own schedule,” I drone, pulling up the appointment schedules. “How can I trust you to take me out of this building if you don’t know how to look at your stuff?”
Miles tsks. “C’mon, Liv. You know, it just gives me a reason to come up and visit you. The highlight of your day.”
“You don’t bring me anything.”
“Last time I brought you a muffin, you said it was crap.”
“It was a bran muffin, Miles,” I rebuke lightly, but it was the thought that counted. I still didn’t eat it, though. “I’m not eighty years old.”
“You act like it,” he mutters with a roll of his eyes. “You’re not dating anyone, are you?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Everything when you’re young as fuck.”
“You’re just salty because I don’t date coworkers.”
He flinches back from the counter a bit out of my peripheral, and I smirk. “Who said anything about dating?”
See.
