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If she does have an actual appointment, I don’t want Blake mad at me because I got rid of her or told her he’s not around.
“Wait here,” I groan, feeling like tipping both coffees over her stupid blond head rather than tell Blake he has a visitor that looks like her.
“I’m gonna be on the cover of Chord magazine,” she calls after me. “Where are you gonna be, getting me a coffee?” she says with plenty of venom in her voice, just in case I don’t catch her meaning.
With any luck, I’ll be bouncing on Blake’s cock by the end of the day, bitch. You can keep your stupid cover, I’ve got the man himself.
At least, I think I do.
The first real doubts, after all my original doubts about whether Blake even likes me creep back in.
The old green eyed monster rearing its ugly head, too.
I’m starting to see why Blake acted the way he did this morning, and I don’t want to be the female version of the same thing.
I can do better. I will do better.
Taking my time, I saunter back over to my place, sliding Blake’s mug across the kitchen counter to him.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, reading my mood before I even say a word.
“There’s some skanky hoe waiting over at your place. Looks like she charges by the hour but she claims to have an appointment,” I practically spit at him.
He looks totally lost, frowning and glancing at me sidelong.
Great stuff, Krystal.
Yeah. I can do way better than overreact with jealousy.
Look at you girl, all grown up now.
Blake moves over to the window, glancing out through the curtains.
He turns to me, making a face.
“She wants to see me?” he asks, making me wonder if I haven’t overreacted just a little after all.
“Said she has an appointment,” I remark, sipping way too hot coffee again, scolding my mouth while trying to sound uninterested.
“I’ll go sort this out. Just wait here I’ll be back in a flash,” he tells me.
Stopping to kiss me as he passes, I feel his hand taking mine in his as the other brushes my hair back over my ear.
“In a flash,” he repeats, pecking my cheek.
I shrug and pretend to not even notice, but move like lightning to the same window he looked out of, not wanting to miss a second of what that cow’s really up to.
Chapter Fourteen
Blake
It was bound to happen sooner or later. Someone would come knocking looking for the editor of Chord magazine.
Who gives interviews or appointments at their house though?
What’s wrong with the office?
If he has one.
Maybe he works from home, nothing unusual about that. I work from home every day.
Stepping out, I can feel Krystal’s eyes on me and sense she’s unhappy for some reason.
There’s a young woman on the doorstep of Nate Macy’s house. A thin, sickly looking type.
I ask if I can help her, planning on getting rid of her without her having to go inside or anywhere near me so I can get back to Krystal, but there’s a problem.
“You’re not Mr. Macy,” she says loudly, sounding more surprised than disappointed.
“And you are?” I ask, glancing behind me, seeing Krystal move back from the kitchen window.
“I’m Dee. I made an appointment to see Mr. Macy last week, he wanted me to stop by with my portfolio,” she says, flaring her eyes and shoving her hand into her hair.
I lower my voice and move closer to her only so Krystal won’t overhear what I’m telling her.
“Well, Mr. Macy’s not here right now. I can take your information and pass it on to him,” I clip, eager to be free of her and this whole charade.
I can’t take another day of pretending to be this guy, and it’ll only get worse the longer I leave it.
“I don’t mind if he’s not home,” she drawls, twirling a strand of her hair now, giving me a look that makes my skin crawl.
“Maybe we could go inside and I could show you my portfolio?” she says huskily and I feel myself about to lose the coffee I just drank.
“I really don’t think so,” I tell her factually. “I’m a busy man myself, so like I said if you just leave the—”
She murmurs something, looking like she’ll cry if I don’t do what she wants, but plastic people who waste my time and talk garbage never have been my thing.
Turning on my heel I snatch her folder as she trots after me, but with a dismissive wave of my hand I remind her I’m busy and if her appointment was with Macy then she’ll have to contact him to rearrange it, not me.
“I tried calling,” she whines after me. Stopping when her heels get caught in the yard, sinking into the freshly mowed grass.
“He hasn’t answered his phone in two days,” she says, cursing under her breathe about the heels before showing her true colors.
