Fall Into You (Morally Gray, #2)(37)

“I’m serious. She’s my new assistant. Just started this week.”

“And now you’re following her?”

“Yes.”

“You ever heard of stalking laws?”

“You ever heard of minding your own business?”

“Yeah. It’s overrated. So this is what, like, a date for you? This is how you pick up women? You gonna go peep in her bedroom window next?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Hey, I’m not the homie spyin’ on his fuckin’ secretary. That’s ridiculous.”

“She’s not my secretary. She’s my assistant.”

“You say that like it changes anything.”

I’d sigh, but as I promised myself earlier I’d never do that again, I roll my eyes to the ceiling instead.

“Oh, hey now. Check out this guero movin’ in on your lady friend. Looks like you got some competition.”

Emiliano’s amused voice draws my attention back to the computer screen.

A man stands at Shay’s tableside, his back to the camera. He’s medium height, medium build, and blond, hence the name Emiliano called him. He’s wearing a white collared shirt rolled up his forearms and a pair of black dress slacks.

There’s something vaguely familiar about him. I stare at his image until he turns his head to one side and I get a good look at his profile.

It’s Dylan. The one who made Shay laugh the day she started working for me. The one whose office is right next to hers.

Is this some kind of date?

He pulls up a chair at the table with Shay and her friend. He sits down and helps himself to the basket of tortilla chips. Then he says something that makes both women laugh, and I have to physically restrain myself from tearing the monitor off Emiliano’s desk and throwing it through the door into the kitchen.

Looking at my expression, Emiliano whistles.

“Okay, now that’s a scary fuckin’ face, ese.” He makes the sign of the cross over his chest. “Damn. I’ll say a prayer for guero. From the looks of you, he’ll be meetin’ his maker tonight.”

I don’t answer. I just stare at the screen, feeling blood flow hot and vicious through every vein in my body.





Shay





I’ve only been sitting with Chelsea for about five minutes before I spot Dylan at the bar. We make brief eye contact before I look away, praying he won’t come over to our table.

Because God doesn’t like me, he comes over to our table.

“Well, well, look who’s here! Hiya, Shay.”

“Hello, Dylan.”

“Who’s your pretty friend?”

Chelsea looks him over, assesses within a nanosecond that he doesn’t have the right watch, shoes, or haircut for her financial requirements, and gives him one of her not-in-a-million-years-pal smiles.

“I’m Chelsea. Hi.”

Not understanding that he’s already been judged and determined lacking, Dylan grins at her. “Nice to meet you, Chelsea. Me and Shay work together.”

She deadpans, “How thrilling.”

I’ve done a decent job of avoiding him this week, but there have been a few memorable run-ins. On Tuesday, he caught me in the break room getting coffee and asked if I was married. When I said no, he said maybe he’d fix that soon while staring at my chest.

Wednesday had him running to catch the elevator I was on while the doors were closing. We rode down to the parking garage together while he told dick jokes and I thought about reporting him to Ruth in human resources.

Then this morning, he casually leaned against the frame of my open office door and asked if I’d heard of the amazing new club downtown. When I said no, he went on to describe it in great detail. It became clear after only a few seconds that he was talking about a strip club.

“Incredible decor,” he said. “I’m a big admirer of good interior decorating.”

Which is like saying you subscribe to Playboy for the articles.

Now he’s looking back and forth between me and Chelsea like he wants to be the meat in our cheese sandwich.

Uninvited, he drags a chair over from the table next to us and sits down.

“Okay, you don’t have to ignore me so aggressively, ladies. You’re starting to look desperate.”

We laugh politely at his dumb joke and share a pained glance.

“So how’s your first week working for the Grinch been, Shay?”

I’d rather gouge out my own eyeballs than tell this moron anything negative about Cole, so I smile brightly. “Wonderful. He’s really great.”

Dylan makes a face. “That’s not the word I’d use. Cole McCord is an asshole.”

I don’t like Dylan using Cole’s first name. It seems too familiar and disrespectful. More than that, I don’t like him calling him an asshole. That’s reserved for me, and I’d never say it aloud to someone else. Especially a co-worker.

Irritated, I wipe the smile off my face and stare at him coldly. He doesn’t notice. He’s too busy looking at Chelsea’s cleavage.

“Cole?” she says, munching on a tortilla chip. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

I send her a meaningful look. She falls still, then her eyes widen. She mouths No!