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I’ll kill the bastard. I’ll fucking kill him. Of course, if Zac did that, it could tip his hand. He was supposed to be Hilbert, a man who didn’t even know Tula.
I must remain in character. Hilbert, the heinous man with no neck, no dick, no muscles. But I’ll be damned if I show up to a party without leather pants.
“Can you give me the address?” Zac asked Tula. “I need to buy an outfit and want to look my best. Being single and all.”
Tula crinkled her perky nose. “Sure. Whatever. But don’t get your hopes up. It’s actors, models, and cool people all the way.”
Ouch. What a snob. Zac was beginning to question if he knew the real Tula. Was there a hidden side to her? Had she been pretending with him?
But that couldn’t be right. Tula was good. He felt it in his heart, and even Cimil had said there’d never been a purer human with a kinder soul.
Hold the fuck on. His mind slammed into a messy brick wall. What if Tula was an illusion, another trap created by Cimil? In reality, he’d formed his initial opinions according to what Cimil’d said. “Forbidden fruit. Too good for you.”
Zac’s insides twisted. That manipulative…that horrible…Cimil! She was a pro when it came to pushing people’s buttons. It was her gift. And she made me want Tula more than anything in the world. All Cimil had to do was say the right words, throw a few roadblocks out, and create an image in his mind of the perfect woman—someone so good, so untemptable that he couldn’t resist her.
Mind you, these were not new thoughts. Zac had contemplated Cimil’s devious nature and her role in his and Tula’s relationship thousands of times. But again and again, Zac fell back on his own needs and wants. His own temptations.
Fuck me. Had Cimil pulled off the ultimate dupe? Because clearly this version of Tula wasn’t the one he’d left behind. No mourning, no searching for him, no trying to find a way to be reunited with him. It was like she didn’t care.
But here was the thing: He still loved her.
He. Loved. Her. As in, worshiped the ground she walked on, idolized the soap that cleansed her granny panties, and adored the air around her that caressed her soft, silky skin. If they opened a store called All Things Tula, he’d buy every damned thing in it.
Didn’t matter if he was a god or the most attractive, ripped, hung deity ever to walk the Universe. Didn’t matter if he could have any woman he desired. Zac had lived for over seventy thousand years, and Tula was the only being his soul felt bonded to.
He. Loved. Her.
So if she’d been putting on an act because of some stupid scheme concocted with Cimil, so be it. His feelings were real. And that meant their connection was real on some level.
And it means that I must give her the benefit of the doubt. Zac had to allow Tula the opportunity to feel their connection without Cimil, Maury, or anyone else in the mix.
I got this. Seventy thousand years of experience in human nature and tempting people. Tonight, he would pull out all the stops. Tonight, I will tempt Tula to listen to her heart.
Zac stepped forward with his stubby legs, reaching for Tula’s hand. “I will see you tonight, Tula. Save a dance for me.” He kissed her hand.
She jerked it away, and her face contorted with disgust. “Er, yeah. Sure.” She jabbed repeatedly to call the elevator back up.
“Make sure you text me if you see Zac, okay?” Gola walked over to his desk and jotted her number on a piece of paper. “It’s really important.” Slurp! She handed it over.
“Sure.” Zac hesitantly took the number, wincing as he watched a thick stream of drool slide from the corner of Gola’s lopsided mouth and hit the floor. Who is this woman? Why is she in Tula’s life? Has she ever heard of a drool bib?
The elevator chimed open, and Gola and Tula stepped inside. As the doors closed, he caught Gola’s gaze. Something tingled in the deepest corner of his mind.
The urge to gag maybe?
No.
He knew her from somewhere. But where?
CHAPTER SIX
“Hello? I’m in urgent need of leather pants.” Zac stood in front of the polished oak counter, ringing the bell next to the register. “Hello! Hellooo!”
Mr. Damien Greystone emerged from the back and looked Zac over with a warm smile. He was a tall man, about six three, with hazel eyes and light brown hair. Today, he had on a pair of pressed black slacks, with perfectly polished wingtips to match his black leather belt, and a baby-blue dress shirt tucked in neatly. Not a wrinkle to be found. Not an inch of extra fabric.
