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“Your mother threatened to fire me,” he adds, “and I believed she’d do it. That’s why you had to run interference. The bill collectors can’t fire me. Only you can, and frankly, getting you the hell out of here is job security.”
His walkie-talkie buzzes. “I need you, Kasey,” comes a female voice.
“I’ll be right there, Shannon,” he answers, speaking to our garden manager before refocusing on me. “Stay at your house, like you did this weekend. It’s a start. And I’ll talk to Nick and whoever else needs to help you get past this probate issue.” His walkie-talkie goes off again. “Ah. I need to go.” He’s on his feet and at the door, gone before I can issue the words, “Thank you.”
I let out a breath and turn my attention to my computer, doing what I haven’t done up until now. I google Nick Rogers. The minute his picture fills my screen, my stomach flutters, and I know that I am in trouble with this man. He affects me. He peels back the layers that are safer left in place. And he doesn’t trust me, which means he’s going to keep peeling. And why do I want to be with a man that doesn’t trust me?
My phone buzzes. “Faith, you have a call,” the receptionist tells me. “Bill—”
“Winter,” I supply, anger spiking through me. “I’m not available.”
“Understood.”
I inhale and let it out. My father did not forgive him. I don’t believe that for a minute. I key up my email, and my heart skips a beat at Nick’s name, when I haven’t even given him my email address. I hit the button to open it and read:
Faith:
What the fuck are you doing to me?
Nick
P.S. Don’t stop.
I sit back in my chair and pant out a breath, feeling so much right now. Feeling too much. I am one big emotion, and I can’t even name it. Maybe because I stopped recognizing anything but guilt. Guilt over not wanting this place. Guilt over my answer to my father. Guilt over so many things with my mother, when she doesn’t deserve to make me feel that. I know that. But I still feel it.
But these feelings Nick stirs in me… They aren’t guilt. But I think there’s some fear. Yes. Fear. I hate fear. It’s a weakness. But I am afraid of Nick, and yet that fear is almost a high. Everything about that man is a high that I crave. Maybe I’m obsessed, because he’s on my computer screen right now and I want to feel him next to me again. I want to call him and hear his voice.
And yet I don’t.
I can’t.
Why am I being this stupid?
He will find out who I really am. He will.
I stare at the email, and I wonder how his deposition is going. I imagine him sitting in some big conference room, his suit as perfect as his body, those keen eyes of his intimidating the hell out of one person after another. I imagine those eyes, which tell a story I have yet to understand.
My phone buzzes again. “Another call,” the receptionist says. “This time it’s a man named Chris Merit.”
“What? Chris…Merit? The artist?”
“I don’t know. Should I ask?”
“No. No, put him through.” The line beeps, and I answer. “This is Faith.”
“Faith. Chris Merit.”
“Chris. Hi. I…thank you so much for including me in the show this past weekend.”
“Thank you for being a part of it, Faith. I understand we have offers on your work.”
“We do?”
“Yes, but your agent underpriced you. I’m going to adjust your prices, unless you have an issue with it.”
I hesitate, but I say what I have to say. “I need that sale.”
“You’ll get your sale, and then some, and for what you’re worth. Trust me, Faith.”
