Every hour showed the same thing:
Cade Westbrook.
Cade Westbrook.
Cade-freaking-Westbrook.
This couldn’t be happening.
“What the heck is he doing?” I murmured, rubbing a hand over my chest.
I restarted the app, but he was still there.
His name. His penthouse. And each booking had two sentences in the special requests section: I screwed up. I’m sending a driver to pick you up at 7.
My jaw dropped to the floor, and I practically ran to direct message him through the app.
Ellie
This is harassment.
He responded immediately.
Cade
I need to see you.
Ellie
Too bad. Cancel those appointments. I’m not meeting up with you.
This had to be a joke—like the first profile that’d hired me to cuddle with Cade. But I couldn’t fathom their motive.
Another message arrived while I spiraled.
Cade
My driver will be there at 7 every night until you change your mind.
I scowled at the screen.
“A driver? He can’t even bother to pick me up himself?” I grumbled to Whiskey, who ignored me from his tower while I mashed a response out with my thumbs.
Ellie
Don’t waste your driver’s time. Just leave me alone.
I closed the app and stuffed my phone deep into my bag, leaving it at that.
Cade and I had nothing more to say to each other.
I wasn’t just living once I stopped messaging Cade; I wasthriving. My days were filled with helping out at the café, visiting Sadie and Bruno’s, swimming in Sadie’s pool, PBA meetings, and taking Whiskey out to explore the city.
Since Cade didn’t cancel his appointments or report me, I was even getting paid to no-show. I would’ve felt guilty, but if he wanted to keep giving me money to do nothing, that was his prerogative.
The first night, I tiptoed past Whiskey perched on his velvet pillow and peeked out the window when seven o’clock rolled around.
A shiny black town car sat idling at the curb in front of Kitty’s with its lights on.
