Page 5 of Taking His Diva

The slide of my fingers into his palm sends a static charge up my arm and straight down between my legs. I immediately tell that blast of arousal to fuck right off, because I will not be attracted to some perpetually grumpy goth guy. Okay, not goth, but not normal either. He wears way more black than is strictly necessary.

It seriously took up three-quarters of his closet. The white shirt I’m currently wearing was the only one in his closet. It didn’t escape my notice that it is Brooks Brothers either. He must have gotten it at a thrift shop or something. It was the only thing in there worth anything and he probably has no clue. I’ve never seen that much black in my entire life. Or worn cotton. Or denim. Or motorcycle boots. There was exactly one suit, and it had literal dust on it.

The line of gift bags along one wall did take me by surprise though. All addressed to different people in his family. Aunt Martha, Uncle Enrique, Mom, Dad. All the cards had little notes about why he got that present and where he got it from. Some were pricey gifts. Some not so much. I can’t figure this guy out. His entire wardrobe couldn’t cost over ten dollars. But he bought a scarf worth several hundred dollars for his aunt because the green reminded him of the leaves on some tree in her backyard.

“Actually, come to think of it, you’re the squatter here.” Scott’s lips try to curl up into that not quite smile again, but they must get tired after a hot second because they fall back into hisgrumpy cat expression. “Don’t worry. You can keep the master bedroom.”

“What are you talking about? I am not staying here.”

“You got a friend you can stay with instead? I’d be happy to get you there.”

I almost snort at this guy saying he’d be happy to do anything. I don’t think he knows the meaning of the word. But then his words hit me, right in the stomach. The truth is, I don’t have any friends I can stay with. Marci made it abundantly clear last night that she wanted nothing to do with me. Besides she’s probably banging big-foot lumberjack right now.

All my other friends, well they aren’t the type that you go to when you need help. They are the type who are only there for what you can do for them. They probably won’t touch me with a ten-foot pole after seeing the news about Dad.

I avoid Scott’s eyes, not wanting him to see the truth behind them. The neighborhood’s not half bad, actually. Well lit, a few businesses lining the street. A couple doors down is a big glass window with some clothes on mannequins. The pieces look cute. I’ll have to head down there to check it out once I figure out where I’m going after this. Maybe I’ll discover someone new to wear. My usual designers are getting stale. Plus, all my clothes are apparently on lockdown by the FBI.

“I’ll just check into the Four Seasons for a while. Pamper myself with room service and massages.” I turn, padding into Scott’s building. The rough cement floors of his lobby abrade my bare feet. Scott had offered me some flip flops he had in the back of his closet, but I’ll be damned if I’m seen out with those pieces of junk on my feet. I’d rather be barefoot.

Scott’s big motorcycle boots clomp on the stairs behind me as we make the way up to his third-floor loft. His place is the only one I’ve seen so far, and I haven’t heard any neighbors yet. But it was insanely early when we left, so I’m not surprised. Still, I’mnot totally convinced yet that he isn’t squatting. His place looked like it could still be under construction.

“Do you have a phone I can use?”

He pulls out an iPhone about three generations old from his back pocket and hands it over. It has a huge crack down the middle of the screen. “Does this thing even work anymore? I’m probably going to get splinters just from using it.” I take it from him, doing my best to grip the edges and not touch the screen. One of the side effects of getting weekly manicures is super soft skin. It wouldn’t take much to get a sliver of glass in my finger.

“It works fine. Never saw the need to replace something that worked but didn’t look quite as pretty.”

The words shouldn’t matter. We’re talking about a stupid phone. But something about them causes a fluttering in my chest.

Which I ignore.

Turning from Scott’s dark eyes that see too much, I look up the number for the Four Seasons and hit dial. The welcoming voice of a reservations specialist soothes my tired soul. Is there anything as comforting as speaking with someone who will give you whatever you want provided you have enough money?

“Yes, I’d like to reserve a room. Preferably the Central Park Suite. You should have my card on file. The name is Lacy Falluci.” I lean against the marble countertop of the island separating the kitchen from the main living space.

Fancy kitchen for a guy like Scott. Another glance around the space tells me the appliances are top of the line. Viking. The cabinets don’t have doors, but they look sturdy. Not like that fake wood composite stuff you see in cheap places. There is plastic sheeting on parts of the walls and some in doorways leading to other rooms I haven’t explored yet.

Definitely squatting.

“I’m sorry, Miss Falluci, but I don’t think I’ll be able to help you.” The woman on the other side of the line taps away at her keyboard, the sharp clack grating on my already frayed nerves.

“If the Central Park Suite isn’t available, that is fine. I don’t mind one facing Midtown.” Honestly, any place away from this situation is fine.

“You misunderstand, Miss Falluci. I can’t give you any room. The financial information on file has come back as denied.” The woman says that last word like it tastes bad.

I don’t blame her. It sounds dirty. Like shit. I’ve never been denied anything in my life. “That can’t be right. Check it again.”

“No need. Maybe you should try a less luxurious hotel.” The woman doesn’t wait for a response, simply hangs up.

Holy shit. Is this what it felt like to be Julia Roberts in that old hooker movie when she got dissed by the shop workers?

Because it sucks.

Jaw on the floor and stomach in my throat, I search for the name of my bank and dial the number, punching in the extension number for my personal account specialist, Tracey. Yeah being rich has its perks, like having one person you always talk to at the bank.

“Everything okay, Lacy?” Scott comes up behind me, a little too close for comfort if the heat radiating off his body was any indication.

Waving him away, I focus back on the matter at hand. “Yes, hi, Tracey. This is Lacy Falluci. I seem to be having an issue with my cards.”

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