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She is not the least bit ruffled by my nearness, though there is a perceptible change in her expression. It’s softened, smoky. There is a hint of amusement lurking there.
“This is not a game, Brynne,” I caution her with concern. “You’re going to have to overhaul a lot of flower boxes to stay afloat if we go down this road.”
My phone rings loudly and interrupts us one more time. I don’t have to look.
“I may be in court yet,” I mutter and silence the call. “I fuckin’ don’t need this.”
“I’m just trying to buy time,” she rasps. “I really do not mean anything against you. You have to be a busy guy. I appreciate your taking the time.”
I am reading the text that is now filling my screen.
“Too much,” I say.
Brynne looks at the screen.
“Bad news?” she asks, her face so fresh and oddly innocent.
“You might say,” I answer listlessly.
“You’re having a bad day,” she says sweetly.
I turn to her and bust out laughing.
“You just served me with a complaint,” I smile and ask sarcastically. “What kind of day do you think I am having?”
“Look, Jack,” she begins. “I am still willing to negotiate, but I had to make sure the demolition was legally on hold.”
“It’s not you entirely. I have a stalker,” I confess randomly. “This woman is draining the life force out of me.”
I stare aimlessly into the air. I’ve endured hellish business stress before. This now borders on harassment – although I don’t think she sees it that way. Stalker stuff can last forever. Hopefully, I can get rid of her after construction is complete. But I can’t even begin construction until I get Brynne out of my hair. I pinch the bridge of my nose with my fingers and close my eyes.
“Is it a billionaire groupie?” she asks.
I turn to her like she is out of her mind.
“I don’t mean to be harsh,” I say with all the patience I can muster. “But really?”
“There are such things,” she assures me.
“Well, thanks for the warning,” I snark. “I think this has all been a waste of time. You know what? I am the common denominator in both these situations; therefore, the solution must lie within me. No more Mr. Nice Guy.”
Brynne’s face gathers like she’s calculating.
“It’s the same person who called and called the day we met,” she says softly. “The caller, your skeevy lawyer called her ‘your admirer,’ isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I rasp. “And I am interrupting your work. No sense in both of us losing our livelihoods.”
“Why don’t you file a TRO – a temporary restraining order?” she asks.
That winds me up. I don’t want to be rude to Brynne, but that’s about the most ironic thing I’ve heard all day.
“Says the chickee who totally ignores due process,” I snipped back. “I own the Calypso. You absolutely do not honor that inconvenient little factoid.”
He continues, “I know what a TRO is. My concern is, why are you so familiar with them? Should I be worried? Do I need to take one out?”
“No. I know about them because I watch a lot of crime TV shows. They are about the only shows I watch.”
“Well then, in your vast viewing experience, do you think some billionaire groupie investor will back off when a judge tells her so? Tell you what, if you can find one case in which a restraining order resolved a stalking situation, I’ll give you the Calypso.”
