Page 11 of Stealing Blinds

“That too. I’m staying in his aunt’s condo, and she’s probably questioning my absurdly long shower. He’ll be here to pick me up in twenty minutes. Another reason why I need to go.”

I would be irritated about the prospect of dinner with a guy I had nothing in common with, but it won me the perfect accommodations. And with the timestamp in the Spencers’ mansion altered to read nine thirty for that window opening, that’s my alibi should anything go wrong. Not that I intend to share that with her.

“Busy.” The tapping of Flora’s manicured nail against what I’m assuming is a full wineglass counts the ticking seconds. “But you’re almost done with this mess, right? Home stretch?”

That’s not how these things work, but she’s never wanted to understand the ins and outs, and we can hope for the best.

“Home stretch. Sure.” I step into the en suite, deciding to save time by touching up my makeup before I rinse off in the shower. I’ll just avoid getting my face wet. “That’s a good way to look at it.”

A noisy swallow precedes her concern. “And how would you look at it?”

Like I trusted the wrong people and have no one to bail me out of this. Like everyone else fucked up, and, yes, I fucked up, too, but I’m the only one who will pay the price. Like one way or another, this is a jump-off-a-cliff ending I’m being forced to catapult into, but I’m out of options. I don’t say any of that because she’ll feel guilty. Maybe she should, but I can’t punish her forever.

Instead, I feather my eyeliner above my lashes and relay the sentiment in a simpler way. “This is my reality. I’m trying my hardest not to end up like Dad, but realizing that’s unlikely.”

A wounded bleat emanates through the phone. “I’m sorry I got you into this.”

I’m not sure what to do with that or the lump clogging my throat because I hate her so much sometimes, but I love her enough to carry this for both of us.

“You didn’t.” I finish the other eye, wrap my hair in a shower cap, and flip the water to hot. “You screwed up, Flora, but this mess isn’t your fault. The asshole and, more directly, my tantrum are responsible for this. But you drowning yourself in that wine, knowing what it does to your body? That’s on you.” Ignoring her indignant gasp, I end the call with, “I gotta go.”

And I get ready for my date in record time.

The night is going smoothly. The restaurant has a spectacular view of the city and the bay. The food is divine. I’m dressed in a sweater and leggings that serve up sexiness, sophisticated warmth, and get-out-of-Dodge flexibility in equal measure. And after two lemon drop martinis, my anxiety-ridden day has melted away.

Rod is a decent guy. He’s vice president of an advertising agency, which has amounted to some semi-interesting stories. That’s really all we’ve discussed. Narcissists make socializing so much less taxing. While I don’t get a total womanizing vibe from him, the man is in his forties and has been married three times, so I’m not sure he’d qualify as a catch.

Although I’ll be thirty next month, and I have a broken engagement on my résumé. Maybe I shouldn’t judge. My mother insists I can’t sentence every man for the sins of one. I understand her point, but it’s not like there’s a line of tempting convicts surrounding me.

Rod finishes his wine, his gaze latching on to something before he returns to me. “A few of my clients are having drinks in the lounge. Mind if we join them since we’re done eating? Then we can finish with dessert.”

“Coffee and dessert sound good.” I peer around the restaurant, assessing the crowd. It’s thinned out considerably. “Would it be all right if I made a call while you met with your clients?”

“Of course.” He drops his napkin on the table, rises, and pulls out my chair. “The lounge is nice. I reserved a table for after our meal, but I’ll be at the bar. It’s not busy tonight, so you won’t bother anyone.”

So, he had other motives for tonight too. I’m guessing he needed a plus-one to score an account. That eases my guilt. He guides me to a booth that overlooks the gleaming city lights.

Once he leaves me, I order coffee, take in the views of Alcatraz and the shimmery water, and text my mom. He didn’t seem to care if I skipped hobnobbing with his associates, so there’s no need to call her to provide a reason for me not being over there.

Me: I’m almost outta here. Dull conversation, but excellent lobster. We’re sticking around for dessert, so jackpot. I heard the crème brûlée is life-changing.

Mom: Don’t let the dessert do all the heavy lifting. Even bores can provide orgasms with some direction. You went all the way to California. You can’t leave empty-handed.

That is her own brand of concern. She manages to make everything lighter.

Me: He’s not needed. I’ll indulge in the crème brûlée and be halfway to an orgasm by the time I make it to the condo.

Mom: Saving your vibrator some work. Fine. That’s my efficient girl. Text me when you leave the city. Love you.

Me: Will do. Love you.

I tuck my phone into my purse and startle when I lift my chin to find blue eyes I never expected to see again. “What are you doing here?”

Cash Noire is the epitome of bedlam, roguery, and charisma, wrapped up in a conceited blond. Utter disaster. The fact that he knows he’s gorgeous only magnifies it. While his casual attire on Mardi Gras was devastating, this black suit, black button-up, no-tie ensemble is obliterating.

His lips twitch like he’s in on a secret, which highlights the light smattering of scruff on his face—enough so it’s clear he’s all man, but not so much that it devours his boyish charm. It’s as if Brad Pitt’s character from Fight Club and Harvey from Suits spawned. Deadly.

And so obnoxious. Who the hell does he think he is?