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“I don’t think so.” I don’t sound convincing. Not even to my own ears. Ryan had seemed strange when he hugged me goodbye. Like it was some sort of final gesture. And I hadn’t heard a word from him since. No text that he made it to the airport. No call to make sure I got on the road okay. Not that I’d left the hotel all that long ago. But still…
“I can’t shake the feeling the guy is hiding something.” Dad’s tone is even more serious. He reads people better than anyone else I know. A cold shiver runs down my spine.
“How did it go?” Hilda asks when I return to the office. I didn’t even bother stopping by my apartment first.
I shrug my shoulders and slump into the chair at my desk.
“That well, eh?” Hilda pulls up a chair and sits beside me. “What happened?”
“We missed her. Never even got a chance to talk to Mrs. Witmore.” I lean back and roll my shoulders.
“That’s not what I’ve been hearing.” Hilda pulls out her phone and hands it to me.
There on the screen is a picture of Ryan getting all cozy with Alice Witmore at a bar.
“Where did that come from? It’s gotta be old.” Except, it isn’t. Ryan is wearing the same shirt and khakis he had on when I left him in the lobby of the hotel eight hours ago.
“I keep an eye on all the good gossip accounts. You know, in case they mention one of our actors and we can use it for publicity. This was posted five hours ago. I wonder what he did to track her down.” Hilda takes her phone back and pinches the screen to zoom in on the picture. “Is that her hand on his leg?”
It was. Pretty aggressive move for a public place, but Ryan didn’t seem to mind. His arm is resting on the small of the older woman’s back, and he has that crooked smile on his face that always gives me butterflies. I feel like I’m going to be sick.
“Before I forget, your landlord called. He needs you to get back to him today.” Hilda gets up and walks away.
I groan, wondering what else could go wrong today. Digging my own phone out of my purse, I glance at the time. It’s getting late, and my stomach growls. Deciding I can handle one more phone call before dinner, I dial the number. “Mr. Jones? It’s Elana Pierce.”
“Finally. I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for two days.” My landlord sounds annoyed. “Don’t you ever answer your phone?”
“This is the first I heard of you calling me. I’ve been out of the office all day and didn’t receive anything on my cell.” I’m tempted to glance at my call log, to be sure.
“Whatever. I didn’t want to leave this as a message. I’ve decided to sell the building. Got a good cash offer on the table. You have thirty days to move out.”
He hangs up before I can do so much as breathe.
He can’t do this to me. Not now. Not today. My finger hovers over the screen. I’m tempted to call him back and give him a piece of my mind. Except, I know that’s not much I can do. I don’t have a long-term lease. We’re month-to-month, and the jerk doesn’t have to give me more than thirty days’ notice.
I drop my head into my hands when my phone buzzes.
“Now what?” I mumble, unable to take any more bad news.
It’s Ryan. He’s in California. In a series of short texts, he lets me know he’s planning on staying a while and promises to call in the next day or two. Would I mind letting a realtor friend of his into the house tonight?
“Everything okay?” Hilda asks when I grab my phone, my keys, and my purse and head out.
“Not even close. I need a shower, some food, and at least eight hours of sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.” I force a smile and walk out the door and to Ryan’s rental car that’s parked in the spot where I left it twenty minutes ago.
I stop by the grocery store on the way home and pick up a pint of rocky road ice cream and a bag of barbecue potato chips. Adding a bag of chocolate chip cookies for good measure, I head home. After a long hot shower and too much junk food, it’s time to make the call I’ve been dreading for months. Without a job and a place to live, there’s no reason for me to stay in Wilmington.
“Uncle Herbert? It’s Elana. I’m wondering if you still have an opening for an English teacher.”
Chapter Eight
Ryan
I let out a sigh of relief when I’m seated on the plane back to Wilmington. It’s been less than a week since I left, but in a way, it feels like I’ve been gone for ages.
“Work trip?” The elderly woman next to me asks. Her auburn hair is obviously dyed, and judging by the designer suit she’s wearing, she isn’t off to visit the grandkids. Trophy wife off to meet her husband is my best guess.
“Not anymore. I’m flying home.” The words surprise me, as does the fact that they ring true. Wilmington, NC does few like home, and it has everything to do with a spunky young producer slash aspiring actress.
