Page 37 of Playing With Love

Instead I told him something he knew. “It’s late, I’ll call her in the morning.” Which begged the question, “Why are you checking emails and working?”

“Girls’ night,” Carter explained. “Used to be just my mom and aunts got together once a month. Now, Laney and the others get in on the action. My dad’s on driver duty tonight. She’s on her way home now.”

That explained the late-night call. Carter was dedicated to his job, but more dedicated to his family. No way would he be checking emails, calling me close to eleven, if his wife was home.

Liza’s name appeared on the screen, calling in likely to tell me she’d read the email, too. The account had been set up to purchase the tickets to the seminar, an account she now had access to. Liza working late didn’t surprise me. That was her—dedicated to the job. There had been a time when I’d thought I could give her more, show her there was more than work. Get in there and earn her dedication. A week ago, that died.

A week ago she handed me more bullshit than I was willing to take.

All I’d asked for was honesty and she fed me shit.

Seeing her name on my screen was unwelcomed and not just because I never expected Liza would lie straight to my face, give me some garbage excuse why she stopped taking my calls. And for some asinine reason I couldn’t fathom, she insinuated it was my fault her jackass ex cheated on her. I was hurt, pissed, and seriously unhappy I had to see her every day at TC. And right then standing in my kitchen nearing on eleven o’clock I was putting away groceries because I’d had to drive forty-five minutes to hit a boxing gym since she’d worked late and I needed away from her, so the TC gym wasn’t an option. After that I hit the store and was home two hours later than normal.

Meaning, I was in no mood to talk to her.

“Liza’s calling in,” I told Carter.

“We need to talk about her,” he informed me, and I was surprised it had taken him so long.

“Carter—”

“Not now. Tomorrow.”

He disconnected, Liza’s call rang through, and I debated sending her to voicemail—something I had never done. Something she’d done countless times in the last two years.

Fuck.

I stabbed the green icon on my screen, letting my impatience and displeasure be known.

“It’s late,” I greeted.

“We need to talk.”

Oh no, we didn’t.

“Think you’ve said enough, Liza.”

“I know. That’s why we need to talk.”

Was she slurring?

“Liza—”

“I lied.”

“Are you drunk?”

I quickly scanned my memories, trying to remember if I’d ever seen her drunk. We’d shared drinks plenty of times. I’d seen her a little tipsy, but I couldn’t recall her ever drunk or slurring.

“Yes,” she hissed.

“Where are you?”

“My hotel.”

Thank fuck for that, she sounded sloshed.

“In your room?”