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His presence makes me uncomfortable. I’m desperate to ask him why he wants to be in business with Emerson considering he showed no interest in that meeting whatsoever. But then I remember I enjoy my job. Biting my tongue will be beneficial if I want to keep it. Some people were born assholes, and no amount of arguing will change that.
He moves toward the door, reaching the handle before I do and opening the door for me. He waits for me to pass, and I’m feeling rather awkward from his up-and-down personality.
“What’s that smell… it almost smells like…” He points his nose into the air in front of him until he gets closer to my chest. I pull back, embarrassed that I smell like puke and because he’s in my personal space. He could motorboat me with the distance to my breasts.
“Baby puke.” I beat him to the punch. “I got puked on, okay.”
“By your baby?”
“No, not my baby. Mrs. Chase’s baby.”
“So, you’re single?”
“Wha… what? What does that have to do with it?”
That grin, again. What the hell is his problem and why the thousand questions?
“Just trying to figure you out, Miss Milenov.”
His eyes stare with curiosity. Something about him seems familiar. I must have seen his face in some magazine or something, perhaps one of Phoebe’s trashloids. At least, that’s what I call them.
“I need to be somewhere. So unless you have any work-related questions, I need to go.”
He places his arm across the door frame, forcing me to stop in my tracks. I’m not used to being around such dominant men aside from my ex back in college. Creepy would be the better description. Liam and the boys back home were so laid back. Something I miss dearly. Flynn, he’s just a lazy grub. But this, this I’m unsure of how to handle. My instincts say go with your gut, don’t let him get to you, and you’ve got that pepper spray sitting inside your purse if needed.
“Maybe it’s a good idea if you carry some spare clothes with you, you know, accidents seem to be your thing.”
“You don’t know me,” I state confidently, holding his gaze and focusing on the unique color of his eyes. They’re like a golden-ish hazel-green color. I’m certain he uses them to get what he wants. Just not with me. No wonder Emerson warned me.
“Maybe I don’t. I’ll just stand here waiting for my apology.”
“Apology?” I laugh at the stupidity of his comment. “For what?”
He bends down, the essence of his aftershave lingering in the air between us. Okay, breathe, don’t let that scent get to you. His lips shift closer to my ear, and easily he whispers, “You said if we ever cross paths again, you’d take your apology out of my ass and actually mean it.”
My heart stops. The ticking resumes seconds later at a loud and fast rate. No. This can’t be the same guy.
I lift my head so that our faces are inches apart, then I touch his face with my bare hand, without even thinking, and lift his chin, tilting it to the left to confirm my fears.
That scar.
Pink, raw, and exposed.
It is him.
Chapter Seven
I make it to the bar where Flynn will be playing. A place named Locust in a trendy part of town.
The place is jammed, full of young and old people in small groups, sitting and standing around the high-end bar tables that are scattered around the cozy venue.
The lighting is poor, a few sconces on the wall and an old guitar hangs behind the bar with a spotlight hovering over it. This grunge-type ambiance isn’t my thing, but I’m here to support Flynn. I do, however, make a mental note to avoid the restrooms at all costs.
I’ve been nursing a gin and tonic for over an hour, waiting patiently for Flynn to begin his set. Alone, at the bar, I make small talk with the bartender as she kindly offers to top me off every so often. I’m not much of a drinker these days, sipping slowly, trying to clear my thoughts without much luck.
I’ll admit he got to me.
Wesley Rich.
