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Cute nods enthusiastically.
I smile and am about to reply when James beats me to the punch. “She can’t.”
I whip my gaze up, finally, finally giving in to the urge to look at him.
He’s wearing a Nike hat and matching shirt, both black—the color of his soul. I realize, as I focus on just how tan and muscular they are, that I’ve never seen his arms. He’s always dressed in a suit when he’s inside the club. Out here, he almost looks like a regular guy—a very hot, very in shape, regular guy.
“Well this is awkward as shit,” Cute says with a laugh.
The guys chuckle, but James’ face is an impenetrable mask of hatred, and it’s directed right at me.
If I stay another second, there’s going to be a scene, and I refuse to let that happen. I only have an hour left of my shift. I’ll wrap it up, earn as many tips as I can, and then do what any self-respecting woman would do in this situation: wait for James in the parking lot when I’m no longer on the clock and give him a piece of my mind.CHAPTER TENBy the time I’ve exchanged my dress for jeans and a tank top, I’ve almost talked myself out of confronting James. Key word: almost. At this point, I’m a missile that’s already been launched. My momentum is too strong to be overridden by silly things like common sense and consequences.
There’s a Tesla SUV parked in James’ spot. It’s his second fancy car, one I don’t see all that often, and I’m trying to decide how satisfying it would be to pull a Carrie Underwood when I hear him call my name.
That didn’t take long. So much for taking a Louisville Slugger to both headlights.
I turn to find him walking out of the club and heading straight for me. I’d assumed he would take longer with his golfing buddies; maybe they didn’t play the full course, or maybe he cut things off early. Either way, I’m happy I didn’t have to wait all night. As it is, the sun is barely setting behind him. I’d probably think it was lovely if I wasn’t a burning ball of fury.
I cross my arms and lean against the side of his car.
He scowls.
I grimace with the intensity of a thousand toddlers being made to eat broccoli.
It takes him an obnoxiously long time to reach me. It’s like he’s walking the wrong way on a moving airport walkway, and I think he likes to watch me squirm. He doesn’t stop walking until he’s right in front of me. I can smell his cologne, the stuff he puts on in the morning to make women swoon. How pathetic. I inhale deeply.
“Where’s your dress?” he asks, tipping his head to the side.
“Stuffed in Ellie’s locker.”
He nods and I think…dear god, is he actually smiling right now?!
“I can see you’re furious.” He says it like he’s happy at the prospect.
I nod. “I am. Did your stupid watch detect that?”
“What exactly are you upset about?”
“Let’s recount.” I hold up my fingers and start ticking things off. “Your friend drugged me, you blamed me, you didn’t stay to see if I was okay, and you still haven’t apologized.”
“She’s not my friend.”
I throw my hands up in anger. “Who cares?! You assumed I did that to myself, and you were wrong.”
He arches a brow. “Can you blame me? It didn’t look good. You disappeared and then returned out of your mind.”
“So? You were wrong and you should have apologized.”
He nods.
I wait.
Silence.
“So…apologize!”
He smiles and steps around me. He’s going to leave, but I’m not done.
“Why were you acting like that back there?” I ask. “On the course?”
He unlocks his car, sets down his golf clubs, and then starts to fold down the back row of seats. “I was curious.”
“Curious?”
He stashes his clubs, closes the door, and turns back to me. “Yeah. Where’s your bike?”
“Locked to the rack behind the clubhouse.”
He starts to walk away, and I’m forced to follow if I want to continue the conversation.
“Curious about what?”
“What your plan was—besides refusing to look at me. It was actually pretty funny.”
I seethe.
“I wouldn’t look at you because I didn’t want to make a scene in front of your friends.”
“They’re business associates,” he clarifies as we round the side of the clubhouse.
“What does that matter?!”
“Because it’s an important distinction. Is Brian your friend?”
“Stop changing the subject!”
He points to my bike lock.
“What’s the combo?”
I cross my arms, looking every bit of four years old. “Like I’m telling you.”
The stare he levels at me could slice through granite. It seems to say, If I wanted to steal your bike, I could just buy this entire country club.
“10-17-38.”
He puts in the combo, pops the lock, and proceeds to wheel my bike back in the direction of the parking lot. I’m left to speed walk after him again.
