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I held the phone tight in my hands, reading his message a few times, trying to decipher if there was any hidden subtext. My fingers lingered over the small response box as I contemplated what to say. The sight of three gray dots had my heart leaping up into my throat. He was typing more!
I’m looking forward to tonight.
Tonight. What the hell would I be doing tonight that would ever come close to paying him back for the ritzy hotel?
I chewed on my bottom lip and studied my phone. Okay, I could do this. I could text Adam. I had done it last night, hadn’t I?
I tapped at the letters on my smartphone.
The word “should” doesn’t exactly evoke a lot of confidence. “Should” I be worried? And what are we doing tonight? Please tell me.
The dots popped back up again, and I wondered where he was right now.
His words sprang to view.
Why are you on your phone? Shouldn’t you be working?!
I couldn’t help but laugh at the angry face emoji he added to the end of his text as I typed him back.
I’m just now eating lunch because I’ve been so busy working my ass off for you. And you still haven’t answered my questions!
No dots. Just silence.
Had I crossed the line?
I stood up and grabbed my wrapped sandwich and looked over at the thick bank of trees that towered behind the bench. A chill from another breeze moved through me, and I shut my eyes as I thought about the feel of the wind on my face and in my hair when I would ride my horse, Java.
My phone danced an inch to the side as it pulsed from the vibration.
Picture this. I’m sitting at a table with a bunch of rich old blokes talking about supply chain issues—boring as feck—when I see a text from you referring to your arse. I spit out my coffee, practically spraying the old dafts in their faces! Thank you for that.
My cheeks burned, and I lowered my phone and paced in front of the bench. What was I supposed to say to that?
He was just playing with me, of course. The man loved to get a rise out of me.
Well, perhaps you shouldn’t have been texting during your meeting, anyway. Oh, and I have a really nice “arse”—I can see why it would make you spit.
I laughed at my message, then moved my thumb to the backspace button. No way. I couldn’t do it. He was the owner, not just a guy who’d been shirtless at my former roommate’s home the night I’d landed.
A text popped up from Rick, my partner. He needed me back inside.
How long had I been outside? We’d been teamed up to prepare a marketing pitch for McGregor’s TV channel.
I was about to go inside the building, but my eyes widened in dismay. “Holy shit.”
No!
I stared at the screen. My message, my joke, had sent. How the hell . . .?
I shoved the phone back into my purse without waiting to see his reply. How could I face him tonight after that message?
I rubbed my hands over my face and groaned as I made what felt like the damn walk of shame back into the building.
* * *
I’d learned my lesson yesterday—never leave without a jacket, umbrella, and rain boots. Of course, I still didn’t have rain boots, but I would get some and quick. Walking in my high-heeled suede boots was less than ideal on the slippery streets as rain pounded my black umbrella and hammered the sidewalk.
I should’ve just taken a cab when I got off the bus. I had meant to look up the route online before I ventured out to meet Adam, but I’d been tied up with Rick all afternoon working on our marketing pitch. I glanced over at a girl (who was in her late teens, maybe) leaning against a building beneath an overhang. Her arms were across her chest as she stared out at the busy street. “Excuse me?” I stepped up to her and then elevated my voice to compete with the patter of the rain. “Am I going the right way?” I showed her the address on my phone, careful to keep it tucked away under the umbrella.
