Tight.
Maggie
The sound of a text pinging wakes me up.
Probably Makayla, the early riser that she is, wanting to know how my day went yesterday.
I need to talk to her in person, and come clean, which I will do very soon, just not today. I have enough to deal with today.
Stretching under the soft blankets, I stare over at the empty pillow beside me. The one that had I not caved under the pressure of the unknown—had I not been worried about what the hell this rip-roaring flame is between us—could have had Keen’s gorgeous face on it right now.
More than likely, he’d be smirking at me, and the hot mess I am in the morning. The thought makes my stomach do that damn flippy thing again.
Enough already.
I get it. He’s all sexy and handsome and charming and he makes your knees go weak, but he’s also all kinds of arrogant and cocky, and let’s not forget how he already hurt you once, so you need to stop it.
Little rant completed, I sit up rubbing my eyes, and then look down at myself and have to laugh.
What a wreck.
After showering last night, I sat on the bed completely naked beneath my towel and slipped back into my shoes, thinking if he really wanted to see me, he wouldn’t let a locked door stop him. He’d call, or perhaps outlandishly bust the door open with his brute strength. And then I’d begrudgingly let him in my bed, but let him in nonetheless.
That call never came.
And my door is still intact.
But hey, I was ready for him in case of either.
And doesn’t that just suck.
That I’d locked him out, and he didn’t want me enough to push past the obstacle, is proof I made the right decision.
See, I wasn’t that wrong about him.
Kicking off my damn shoes, I pull the sheet up and reach for my beeping phone.
The sun is just starting to rise, so I know I’m not late.
The text is not from Makayla.
It’s from Keen.
My lower belly flips again in response, and this time a burst of tingles erupts between my legs.
Oh, geez.
I told my body to stop already!
Opening the text, I brace myself for his rant. More than likely he’s going to be madder than a hatter and I will have to suffer his wrath all day.
Yes, he will become Miranda Priestly today and I will be Andrea.
Damn.
Oh, and let’s not forget he’s the male version, so I get to be all hot and bothered at the same time. I really need to work on repelling his super-annoying sex appeal.
Realizing I’ve been squeezing my eyes, I open them and read the message.
Asshole: I’ll pick you up at 7:30 sharp.
Me: I’ll pick you up at 8.
Asshole: No. I’m driving and I’ll pick you up at 7:30.
Me: The store doesn’t even open until 10!
Well, it’s not what I expected.
No mention of the door being locked.
No mention of all the wicked things he wanted to do to me last night.
It’s like it never happened, and he’s back in yesterday morning’s full arrogant work mode.
Also, I should probably change his name.
Minutes pass and there is no return text, and then ping. Already holding the phone in my hand, I open up the message.
Keen: Please. I’d like to talk to you first.
Me: Fine.
Talk about taking the wind out of your sails.
Sucking in a deep breath, I let it out and set my phone down. Too mentally drained to argue with him, and honestly too exhausted to make the drive to LA.
Letting him drive works out for the best, anyway. Tomorrow we have to fly to New York, so I’ll stay at my mother’s house tonight and take an Uber to the airport in the morning.
Let him pay for long-term parking. I’ll spend the money on upgrading to first class so I can have a drink or two or ten to gain the strength to be beside him for five solid days, and not want to jump his bones every minute of every hour of every day.
After hauling myself out of bed, I decide that since I have time, I’ll take a bath. My feet are still killing me and the soak can only help them get ready for another day. There will be no sky-high heels for me today—that is for certain. If I want to look Keen Masters in the eye, I’ll get a freaking stool and feel proud when I stand on it.
My bathroom retains the original claw-foot tub and black-and-white checked floor from when it was first built. Something I always loved when my grandmother lived here and am glad my mother kept when she renovated the place before I moved back.
Making quick work of undoing my towel, I stand in front of the mirror and look at myself.
I am a woman in control of my own life.
What am I afraid of?
A man.
Why?
My mother and her mother did not let men define them. They went out and conquered their worlds—without being in love.
At fifty, my mother is more than content living alone. She dates on occasion. And I’ve known her to have an overnight guest, as she calls it, every once in a while.