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“Gabe? You still there, man?”
I nod, swallow hard, and get my shit together. “I’m here. What the hell is she talking about, a key?”
“Well…”
His voice trails off.
“Shane.”
“Well, her sister got here, and Miranda wasn’t home yet, so I… let her in.”
“Let her in? Where? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Into Miranda’s apartment.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? How did you get a key?”
“Had one made, remember? You told me to get a copy in case of an emergency.”
Yeah, I’ve crossed some fucking lines. And with Shane’s natural tendencies to overstep, he made it easy for me. I groan, running a hand through my hair, and shake my head.
“I’m going to her. There’s no way around it. I have to talk to her, confess to everything, and make it right again.”
“You do that.”
“You don’t sound too confident,” I mutter, opening the door to the suite and heading to the elevator.
“Well, I… I dunno, man. Lexi sounded like she was ready to castrate me, never mind you.” He pauses. “Though honest to God, the way she got all worked up and angry was so fucking hot, I seriously—”
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
“Okay, okay,” he mutters. “Sorry, boss. I’ll have your car brought around right away.”
Jesus, I’ve fucked this up. I need to make it right again. I call her again, but of course it goes straight to her voicemail.
“Where to, sir?”
I give him her address, the same address I’ve had memorized for months. I shake my head and pinch the bridge of my nose. My phone rings again, and I reach for it. This time, my heart soars in my chest.
Miranda.
“Hello?”
“Don’t even think about coming over here.”
It’s uncanny how well she knows me.
“We need to talk.”
“I need some space right now, Gabriel.”
Gabriel, not daddy. I hate that.
“And I have a few things to say.”
“Not now. I want you to just give me some space and time to process everything.”
“You don’t even have the full truth!”
“I know enough.” Her voice is pained and ragged, and it tears my heart in two. “And I need you to leave me alone.” Her tone shifts to her professional business owner one. “I apologize for negating the terms of our contract. You’ll be paid back in full.”
“Miranda, I—”
The phone goes dead. I stare at it for a moment as if that conversation didn’t just happen. I want to throw this goddamn thing out a window.
My driver looks in the rearview mirror. “Same plans, sir?”
I speak through gritted teeth. “Same. Plans.”
I shoot Miranda a text.
You maybe saw the news about my “wife.” I have no wife. I was married before in France, but that wedding was deemed invalid in France, and sure as hell isn’t valid in America. It was only on the French news, and I covered it up in America because I wanted a fresh start.
No response.
And I know you know Shane had a key to your apartment, but I can explain everything.
Can I? How do you tell a woman you love her when she won’t even answer her phone?
We arrive at her apartment, just as dusk settles.
I take in a deep breath and square my shoulders when I get out of the car. I know exactly which number to press, and just how the concrete’s broken a few paces outside the door. I know the mail comes at noon, and there’s a woman on the bottom floor who owns a chihuahua that no one “knows” about because it’s against policy to have pets here.
Maybe I’ve taken things too far.
Ok, I definitely have.
I buzz her number, but there’s no answer. I’d bet anything she’s home, though. I want to go all caveman and pound this door down, yell for her. Instead, I take in a deep breath and pull my phone out again.
I send her a text.
Open the door. We need to talk.
A few seconds later, I get a response.
No.
She’s making me angrier. I want to take her by the shoulders and shake her, then spank her ass good and hard.
Is this how you handle things? You make up your mind ahead of time about what’s true and don’t bother to listen to the other side? Real mature, Miranda.
Her text is quick and succinct.
Fuck. Off.
I feel my eyes narrow and my pulse quicken.
When I get ahold of you, I’m going to turn you over my knee and spank your ass till you can’t sit.
You lost that privilege.
I’m fuming, pacing on the front step. A mailman comes and places a box on the step beside me, and I want to kick it down the damn stairs. He watches me, eyebrows slightly raised, as he takes out a key ring and puts the mail in the correct boxes.
“Everything alright?” he says.
“Locked myself out,” I mutter. Will he be able to get me in? Just then a door opens and a mother and her children come out.
