He shrugs and goes back to what he’s doing.
I stare at the computer on the desk, and I don’t know why, but my gut is telling me to buy it. “Damn it, okay, fine. As it is, right now, for a thousand dollars.”
He smiles a slimy grin. “Okay, honey.”
I hand him over my mother’s credit card, the one I have for emergencies . . . sorry, Mom.
I pay the thousand dollars and take the computer and walk out the front door.
My phone rings. Tristan’s name lights up the screen. Perfect timing.
“Hello,” I answer.
“Sorry I took so long to get back to you. That girl’s name is Lara Aspin, and get this—she used to work in accounts,” he blurts out.
“What does that mean?” I frown.
“She had access to the bank account details.”
“Oh my God, Tristan,” I whisper as I look around guiltily. “I just followed her on the train, and she sold her computer to a pawnshop, and I know this is crazy, but I just bought it for a thousand dollars.”
“What? You have it? You actually have her computer?”
I smile proudly. “Uh-huh.”
“Where are you? I’m coming to get you now.”
I walk through the airport with my heart in my throat. I’m pulling my small carry-on suitcase so that I look the part of a tired traveler . . . or perhaps I’m just trying to pretend to myself that this isn’t a bad idea.
Because I know it is; deep in my gut I know that I shouldn’t be playing this dangerous game with him. I should be sitting down and having a civilized grown-up conversation.
But desperation has brought out my weakness, and I’m hoping that tonight Jameson and I can talk . . . and he can apologize and beg for me to come back, and then I can punish him, and we can begin to get back on track.
I haven’t seen Claudia again, so I have no idea what is going on with her, but the fact that Jameson wanted to see me tonight tells me that it’s nothing.
I hope it’s nothing . . . God, I hope it’s nothing . . . stop it.
I duck into the bathroom to give myself one last pep talk. I reapply my red lipstick, Jameson’s personal favorite, and I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My long dark hair is out and wavy. I wanted to wear a dress but didn’t want to seem too eager, so I finally decided to wear black fitted capri pants and a black silk shirt with the top button strategically undone. My black lace bra is just peeking through if I move the right way. I’m wearing his favorite fragrance and think I look sexy without trying to be sexy . . . is that even a thing?
God knows. I guess I’ll soon find out.
Don’t be needy . . . don’t be whiny . . . and don’t be overdramatic, I remind myself. Be sexy and alluring . . . like I was when we first met.
Right, I can do this.
I drop my shoulders, take a deep breath, and steel myself for the night ahead. This is literally a make-or-break situation. I need to remind him why he fell in love with me in the first place . . . how the hell has he forgotten?
That in itself is an issue . . . I close my eyes in disgust. Stop overthinking this.
I walk down the corridor and into the Clubhouse Bar. It’s busy and bustling. I walk in and take a seat in the corner at a bench-seat table for two. If he wants to see me, then he can find me. I’m on a stopover and totally oblivious to anything around me.
I take out my laptop and open my emails.
“Can I get you a drink?” the waiter asks as he approaches my table.
“Yes, please.” I smile as I hand him my credit card. “A top-shelf margarita, please.”
He smiles and, with a cheeky wink, walks away. Damn it, that Jameson Miles has spoiled me. I seem to have an addiction to top-shelf shit, and it just rolls off my tongue a little too easy now.
I turn my attention back to read my emails and pretend that they’re fascinating.
They’re not.
And what I really want to be doing is giving this place the once-over with an eagle eye . . . is he here?
The waiter returns with my drink. “Here you are, a top-shelf margarita.” He places it down onto the table. “And the gentleman at the bar asked that I deliver these to you.” He places a large bowl of strawberries and a dipping bowl of hot chocolate on the table.
My eyes rise to where he gestures, and I see Jameson sitting at the bar. He’s wearing dark denim jeans and a white shirt that I bought him. His dark hair is messed to perfection. Our eyes lock, and he raises his glass and then takes a sip.
My stomach rolls in excitement. He hasn’t looked at me like that in a long time.