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Barring a visit from the refrigerator fairy, there’s only one explanation—that Sebastian went shopping for me while I was asleep, stocking my kitchen with enough food to last through a zombie apocalypse.
Still unable to believe my eyes, I rip open my freezer, stare at the neat stacks of organic chicken breasts, steak, tilapia, plus a few frozen dinners.
It takes a minute for what he’s done to sink in and when it does, I’m filled with such a huge anger that my vision literally shifts, changes, and I suddenly understand what it means to see red.
I feel like a whore.
Oh, I know that probably wasn’t his intention, know that he saw the meager state of my cupboards and probably just wanted to help. And while I’m sure he was well-intentioned—Sebastian is nothing if not a gentleman—that still doesn’t make this okay. I’m not sure it would be okay if we were in the middle of a relationship. I know it’s not okay when that note of his made it very clear that he considers us only a one-night stand.
Not giving myself a chance to think, I stomp back into the kitchen, pull my cell phone out of my purse. I don’t have his number—one more sign that whatever this thing between us is, it isn’t real—and dial the Atlantis’s main line. When a friendly voice answers a few seconds later, I demand to be put through to Sebastian Caine.
Except it doesn’t exactly happen like that. Of course it doesn’t—he’s currently the acting CEO of the most popular casino hotel in Vegas. Now that I think about it, there are probably a hundred crazy people who call him every day—maybe more. Of course his secretary screens them out and it’s not her fault that she doesn’t know who I am. That she thinks I’m just another whack-job and as such brushes me off.
But it is Sebastian’s fault, and just one more piece of evidence that proves I mean nothing to him. If I did, he would have said something to her—given her my name, told her to expect a call from me, something. Because surely he had to know it was coming, right? You don?
?t just do this to a person’s kitchen—don’t just do this for them—without expecting a thank-you. Or a fuck you. Something.
I’m stewing when I hang up, and there’s a part of me that wants nothing more than to throw all the food away. But that would be cutting off my nose to spite my face—in the extreme. Not when for so long I’ve barely had the money to buy a loaf of bread and the cheese to go on it. Not when the average salary of cocktail waitresses in Vegas—mine included—is barely fifteen hundred dollars a month.
And so, while it grates, I force myself to reach into the fridge and pull out a pear he left for me. I love pears and it’s been a long time since I’ve had one—of course I can’t resist. But I’ve barely washed the thing when my phone rings. A quick glance down shows that it’s coming from one of the Atlantis’s bigwig offices—we all know those digits—and my stomach clenches. Because it’s him. Of course it’s him, and now that he’s on the other end of the phone, I have no idea what I’m going to say. Thank you or fuck you? I appreciate it or you made me feel like a whore?
Too bad Hallmark doesn’t make a card for this occasion.
For now, I settle on a grudging hello.
“Aria, sweetheart. Sorry my secretary didn’t put you through. I was on a call.” They’re the first words out of his mouth and they are completely unexpected.
“No problem,” I find myself answering. It’s hard to be churlish in the face of his obvious warmth and concern.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Yes.” Better than I have in years. “Thank you.”
“I’m glad. So what are you up to today?” His voice is low and warm and intimate and I feel like I’ve just dropped into the twilight zone. His note made it sound like he had no intention of ever seeing me again and yet right here, right now, it’s obviously on. If he got any more blatant, he’d have his face buried between my thighs.
Which, now that I think about it, isn’t a wholly unpleasant thought. Not when he’s so good at getting me off.
“I’m going to see my sister.”
“Lucy? I’m sure she’ll be excited to see you.”
“You remember her name.”
“I remember everything you’ve told me so far.”
It’s the last straw. “Why do you say things like that? You have to know it confuses me!”
“What’s there to be confused about?” For the first time since he called, he sounds as wary—as bewildered—as I feel.
“Nothing! Everything. I mean you leave me that awful note, but then you go grocery shopping for me. Your secretary doesn’t know who I am, but you call me back as soon as you get the message. Do you not understand how all that makes me feel?”
“What was wrong with my note?” he asks.
“The note isn’t the point!”
“It must be at least part of the point,” he tells me. “Or you wouldn’t have brought it up.”
“No! I mean, the note was fine.” I’m tripping over my tongue at this point and have no idea how to stop. “It got your point across, which is all that matters.”
