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“And what about now? Are you seeing anyone?” she asks.
My mind immediately drifts to Mr. Suit. The somehow uptight yet dirty, hot man of my fantasies. Ever since I walked out of his apartment wearing only a bedsheet, I’ve been on pins and needles waiting to see if he’ll call. Yesterday, I dropped the sheet by his door with nothing but a Post-it note marked with a red lipstick kiss.
Then this morning, I found a bag containing the hoodie and underwear that I’d left at his place, which he’d washed. Along with that, he’d left a note saying he was busy with work for the next few days but asked if I wanted to come over next weekend for a “repeat.”
It was a booty call...which is exactly where I’d drawn the line with him. For some reason, a handwritten note felt a little less sleazy than a text. Or maybe I’m justifying it to myself because Iwantto see him again. He’s compromising to meet my requirements, which I get the impression he doesn’t do often.
“I’d say that sly smile says youareseeing someone!” Presley leans forward. “Tell me everything.”
“It’s nothing,” I say, but I can barely wipe the grin off my lips. As soon as the Jack and Jill party is done with on Saturday night, I’ll be paying Mr. Suit a visit.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Flynn
ISTAREBLANKLYinto space with my hands behind my head as I swing on my office chair. Anyone observing me might assume I was in a meditative state of calm. Or perhaps contemplating a complex problem.
On the inside, however, I am a blazing inferno. Furious, indignant, desperate and sad. Two families have pulled out of our gene therapy study, including one group that I flew over from New Zealand, paying for their accommodation out of my personal bank account. They’ve left us short and now we’re scrambling trying to find new test subjects.
None of the research matters unless we can test it on real people with real diseases.
Of course I understand the parents’ fears—they know they might not have a long time with their kids, and they’re worried about “wasting it” in clinics and hotel rooms. Perhaps this is the reason there’s still no cure for Batten disease. Not enough time to test out theories and not enough willing test subjects.
I won’t lie down and admit defeat. Drawing in a long breath, I bring my hands to my thighs and swivel back to my desk. Francis is standing in my doorway, a big crease between her brows.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say, holding up a hand. She knows every part of the business here, because she sees all my emails and fields my calls. And she loves Zoe, too. Dotes on her every time she comes to visit.
“Okay.” Francis nods and comes into my office, closing the door behind her. “Maybe I can distract you with some wedding drama then?”
“Again?” I groan. “Is it this fucking Jack and Jill party?”
“I’m afraid so.” Francis settles into one of the plush leather seats on the other side of the desk and smooths her hands over her tweed skirt. “I thought everything was sorted after I made the booking, but I have a friend who works at the venue and she caught a glimpse of the event plan. Apparently it’s now a costume party and the key contact is your favourite maid of honour.”
“She called them behind our backs and changed all the plans?” The balls on this chick.
“It appears so.” Francis purses her lips.
“Change it back.” I feel an ache in the back of my jaw and realise I’ve been grinding my teeth. This is not the best moment for party problems to surface. I’m in one of those “burn it all to the ground” moods. “Change it back to what we talked about and make sure you’re the key contact. Explain that we’re having some issues with a very enthusiastic maid of honour who wants to stick her nose into everything. Should they get any calls from her, the venue can advise that it’s all been handled, but they should not give her any further information.”
Francis looks at me for a second. “And the invitations?”
“Send them out today. We’re doing them by email anyway and my understanding is the bridesmaids sent a ‘schedule of events’ with all the dates several weeks back, anyway. So this is simply a formality.”
“What are you going to do when she sees the invite? She’ll know you’ve reverted to the other theme without informing her.”
I shrug. “Then it’s done, isn’t it? Too late for her to change it back.”
Francis gives me that stern mother look. “Are you stirring up trouble between your cousin and his fiancée?”
“No.” I shake my head. “From what Mike told me, his fiancée’s sister is never around anyway. She flits in and out as she pleases and she’s kind of the black sheep of the family. Mike doesn’t seem to like her too much, so I doubt it’s going to cause any more of a rift than there already is.”
“Okay.” Francis nods and pushes up from her chair. “I’ll make sure we’re locked in for the black, white and gold theme.”
As my office door clicks shut and I’m alone again, I tilt my face toward the ceiling. In all this chaos and stress, the only happy part of my day is when I think about Blondie.Drew.I’m still chuckling days later after she walked out of my apartment wearing my bedsheet. The note she left me, sealed with a red-lipped kiss, is stuck on my monitor. Even now, with all this other crap going on, seeing it makes me smile.
There’s something unique about that woman that drives me totally and insatiably wild. It’s been torture not to go home early and knock on her door. Not to call her in the middle of the night.
You’re not getting attached to a woman who’sthatemotionally unavailable.
