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I hate Ian for turning me into this person whose heart is so soft that it shatters at his blatant rejection. However, right now, I also need him.
My fingers find themselves dialing his number, and before I know it, the call is going through.
“Hello?”
There is something different about his voice, a formality that has never been there.
“Ian, it’s me.”
I don’t know why I said that. Of course, he knows it’s me.
“Agatha, I’m sorry. I can’t talk right now. I’m occupied at the moment. Can this wait?”
The distance in his voice makes me sway, and I bite my lower lip so hard that I bleed. “Yeah,” I stare at my office doorway, my voice hollow, “It’s nothing.”
I hear the click of the phone, and I steel my heart against the sharp throbbing pain.
One problem at a time.
I have very good aim. So, if the next person who walks through those doors isn’t Zayn, they will end up sporting a very bad head injury.
Fortunately, it is Zayn, and my body shakes like a leaf when I see him.
“Are you okay?” he demands, his ruffled dark hair telling me that he didn’t have his helmet on while he drove. His icy blue eyes are sharp as they study me and then sweep the room looking for danger. His hands go inside the leather jacket, and I just know he is reaching for his gun.
“It’s fine. Let’s go.”
The relief of seeing him is so great that I want to break down and cry.
I refuse to.
I refuse to let him or anyone see my weakness, so I dig my nails into my palm, my hands curl into fists.
I brush past Zayn, and he grabs me by my arm, his face serious.
“Agatha.” That tone is only reserved for when something is really wrong, and I purse my lips and force myself to meet his gaze.
“I’m overworked and exhausted. I am just hearing things.” I give him a small smile. “I probably need to sleep for the next twenty-four hours.”
He doesn't seem to buy it, but for now, he lets it go, and I feel I can breathe easier.
However, as we leave the building, I can’t shake the feeling that somebody is watching me.
5
Ian
I stare at my phone for the fifth time.
“Whose call are you waiting for?” Fergus is standing behind the bar for a change, not working, just waiting for his fiancée to show up. In his usual attire of black pants and dress shirt, one would think he can’t identify any other color, but Sarah loves him despite that.
I shrug my shoulders. “No one in particular.”
“Want a drink?” my childhood friend asks.
“Yeah. Whiskey, actually,” I mutter.
Fergus scoffs. “That’s the drink of the heartbroken. What happened? Agatha finally dumped you?”
