“Yes, that. And now—what? You’re just suddenly not interested? Now you’re being charitable and gentlemanly? I don’t believe it.”
McCarthy takes his wallet and phone out of his pocket and tosses them on the desk.
“If you want me to fuck you, then get on your hands and knees on the floor.”
His phone goes off, signaling a text.
“Sable St. James.” I snatch it up while he just watches me.
“Nice tits.” I huff. “Look expensive.”
Another photo comes in.
“Oh my god, that’s her full-on vagina?” I slap the phone into his hand.
“Guess some women find assholes attractive.” He smirks.
“Some women have low standards.”
“Cupcake, we all know the type of men you find attractive. ‘Low standards’ is severely understating your taste in romantic partners. And you weren’t just fucking them. You got engaged to these assholes.”
“Yes, I make a lot of thoughtless decisions when it comes to toxic men, but I’m learning. I’m never getting engaged to you, after all.”
Stupid, stupid thinking about engagements and marriage with him, my client. Though that’s not even the worst of it.
McCarthy is a self-absorbed asshole.
Huffing, I run back down the hall and throw open the front door.
The guards look up at me. There’s a whole group of them now, all arguing in a video conference call with the man I recognized from the Rainier Investment offices. Crawford, McCarthy’s half brother.
The men stop what they’re doing to stare at me. Finally, one of them asks, “Can I help you?” Then he adds, “Ma’am.”
“Do I look like a ‘ma’am’?” I shriek at him. “I’m not that old.”
The young guy shuffles nervously. “Miss?” he says unconfidently.
“I’m leaving. I’m going to a hotel or my friend’s house or something. I don’t know, but I’m not staying here.”
As a group they watch me walk to the elevator, press the button…
Press the button…
“Is it broken?” I jam my finger on the down button.
“Oh no.” Two of them jump in front of the door that leads to the emergency stairs. “Mr. Svensson isn’t going to allow that.”
Damn him.
I slam the front door behind me, hands on my hips, looking around the living room.
Should I be more worried that Brock is somehow in the tower? Yeah, but all my brain can fixate on is that McCarthy and Sable have exchanged numbers. She is in his contact list. They are calling and texting each other late at night.
Maybe that’s why McCarthy’s suddenly so uninterested.
I need to get the hell out of here. I’m not going to sit awkwardly in his guest bedroom while he and Sable fuck each other’s brains out.
For someone who doesn’t cook, McCarthy has his kitchen stocked up—eggs, steak, potatoes, cheese—all the fixings.
