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She’s probably shut off her phone, if not changed the number.
Or what if she did see it and she still doesn’t care to say boo?
Now, she hates me so much she doesn’t want anything to do with me, and I already blew my only chance to make things right. I might have even made things worse.
That realization makes me slam the rest of my third beer.
Way to go, Roland, you desperate flaming dumbass.
The woman you love ends up traumatized by a mass media hit, and you try to make up for it by subjecting her to more attention.
Even if that attention should be positive—I haven’t had the nerve to check the data, the traffic, and that’s not what I care about right now—it still might be more than she can handle.
I finish spitting out beer that tastes like ash when my phone buzzes from the back pocket of my jeans.
I already know it’s not her—Callie has custom ringtones for both calls and texts.
Still, my entire body seizes up with a harsh tingle. I snatch my phone up with my breath lodged in my throat, fingers swiping at the new text and hope trying to murder me.
It’s not her.
Of course, it’s not.
It’s an unknown number with...a Los Angeles area code? Who the hell do I know in L.A.?
Unknown: Meet me in your office tonight. 11 p.m. Come alone. No tricks. Tell no one.
If that isn’t a neon red flag, I’ve gone colorblind.
Who the hell is this? I send back.
Less than a minute passes before I get an answer.
Unknown: If you care at all about helping a mutual acquaintance, you’ll come find out. I won’t say anything else. Be there, or be a worm.
Unknown: I’ll be waiting.
What the hell.
My first instinct screams warning.
Who would trust a random text from a complete stranger demanding a private, undisclosed meeting with no way of anyone following up on your safety?
Especially when you’re as hated as I am, and planted firmly in a very vindictive asshole’s sights?
Make that a vindictive asshole who’s probably not done with me.
Despite the danger, I can’t help being curious.
I must be sick in the head.
There’s a certain edge I’ve been missing. I’ve walled myself off so carefully, so guarded, that I’ve forgotten how it feels to take an honest risk.
Callie showed me how amazing that could be.
How it felt to be alive, even when I was too shit-scared to open up to her.
Damn. What else do I have to lose?
And on the off chance this amounts to something more than another blunder...what wouldn’t I give to undo this mess?
I glance at my watch. Almost ten o’clock now.
Considering this is Chicago, I’ll barely make it there in time with the traffic, and only if I take an Uber instead of dragging poor Dominick out of bed at this hour.
I hesitate a second longer.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, then grab my coat and head out.
Let’s find out who this is and what they’re after.
If I really am the biggest dolt in the Windy City, at least I’ll have total confirmation.
* * *
It’s exactly 10:59 when I’m dropped off outside my tower.
The office is especially imposing tonight, dark windows everywhere, save for a few rectangles of pale light where people at their desks are pulling all-nighters.
I stand outside for a second, looking up at the tall signpost on the sidewalk corner, festooned with the logos of every company that rents space in this high-rise. The Osprey Media logo is at the very top, dominating all others.
Once, a position of pride.
It’s strange how hollow it feels now.
When I march through the glass lobby doors, I can already make out someone inside—a small, feminine figure with her back to the doors, shrouded in a thick hoodie pulled over her head.
She’s got a thick manila envelope tucked under one arm, so fat it’s almost bursting at the seams.
The guard behind the desk eyes her suspiciously.
My heart leaps the second I see that frame. I go charging inside without thinking, my chest pounding.
“Callie—”
Wrong.
I know it’s not her the second the stranger turns around.
I can barely make out a face past the hood. The woman has a scarf on under the hoodie, pulled up over her mouth—and a pair of massive sunglasses that almost fully obscure the whole top half of her face.
That California tan isn’t Callie. Neither is the wisp of blond hair just barely escaping the hood to curl against her brow.
I stop, frowning.
“Mr. Osprey?” The guard cuts in. “This lady says she has a meeting with you, but—”
She holds up her hand imperiously while I say, “It’s fine.”
Then she tugs her shades down just enough to reveal blue eyes. “Do I have a meeting with you, Osprey?” she asks.
Yeah, I definitely fucking recognize that voice.
Milah damn Holly.
Of all the people in the world.
It takes me a second to pick my jaw up off the floor.
