Chapter Nine
“I’m concerned about these vacancy numbers, India.”
Shit. Yes, I know the vacancy numbers are an issue, but instead of losing my cool, I take another sip of my coffee. “I know. We’re working on it. Jack’s been riding Janis, but she’s being more dimwitted than usual and keeps making excuses. They’ve gotten rent collections up and they’re nearly caught up on filings, so some of the fires are being put out.”
“That’s all well and good, but if these vacancies aren’t down by next quarter’s report, we’re going to need to have a serious talk. All of us.”
“I’ll lease them up myself. What would make you happy?”
“Nothing less than ninety-three percent occupancy, but I’d kiss you if you could get me ninety-six.”
“Ninety-seven it is. Hope you warned Glory, I’ll be coming to collect.”
She laughs, and we wrap up with a few small changes she’d like made. I promise to have the revised report to her by the end of the day. Not a bad start to my first day back. Next stop, Jack’s office.
I knock on his glass door but don’t wait for a response before coming in. “Would you mind if I went up to LA on Friday? We need to put the fear of god in Janis about these vacancy numbers because fear of Cooper doesn’t seem to be cutting it.”
“Go.” He doesn’t look up from his desktop. “But you better get your bitch face back on because that dreamy look you’ve had on all morning isn’t going to cut it.”
“Don’t worry, Jack. I’m sure four days of the vitriol that spews out of your ugly maw will wipe it right off.”
Note to self: stop thinking about Cris. Apparently even Jack has noticed, and I doubt Jack would notice if I shaved my head.
“You’ll only have two. I’m going to Chicago on Wednesday.”
“Client?”
“Possibly.”
Fuck. I can’t go to Chicago.
“Two should be plenty. If we get Chicago, give it to Leo. His kids are there.”
Jack loosens his tie in response. That’s never good. I should get out of here before the shit hits the fan. When I get back to my desk, I check my personal cell for the ten thousandth time since leaving Cris’s house and find a text from Rey:
Call me.
Even though my stomach has dissolved into butterflies and I want nothing more than to call this second, I don’t. Instead, I use it as motivation to slog through some numbers for Provo. A few hours later, I dial my reward.
“You must have been a very good girl.”
“He called?”
“Yes. Last night. He’d like to see you again. As soon as possible.”
It’s all I can do to keep from squealing.
“Oh.”
“That’s cute, India. Really.” Rey chuckles, and I picture his eyes rolling from five hundred miles down the California coast. “I’ll see you tonight.”
* * *
I happily bust my ass for the rest of the day, writing up a grant for Alameda County and sending the revised report to Cooper. I drop copies of everything on Jack’s desk and hustle out to my car, cranking up my stereo for the drive to the restaurant where I’m meeting Rey. It’s some swank Asian fusion place where it’s impossible to get a table, but when I pull up and Rey takes my hand, we’re shown right to the best seats in the place.
“Do you still want to kiss me?”
“I’d do more than that if I thought you’d enjoy it.”
Rey chuckles. “Matty did say you had a good time.”
“I really did.”
“The talking?”
“Not so bad.”
“And the rest?”
I swoon in my chair, and Rey laughs.
“I see. The feeling appears to be mutual. He must’ve called right after you left.”
More butterflies. Why the fuck have I turned into a giggly adolescent? I want to roll my eyes, but I’m too damn pleased. It wouldn’t be the first time someone called Rey as soon as I walked out the door, but it’s the first time I’m as eager.
“When do you have time?”
“Not until July.”
“Oh, kitten.”
“I know. This sucks. I asked for passable. Why’d you have to find me perfection when I don’t have any time to enjoy it?”
The thought of Cris giving up on me makes me queasy. I know I was so eager to be the rebound fuck, but the idea of Cris with someone else makes me feel… Is this jealousy? Is that what this is? The fury and pukey feeling and possessiveness that come over me when I think of his hands on someone else?
“Do you think he’ll wait?”
“From the phone call I got last night? Yeah, he’ll wait.”
Relief extinguishes some, but not all, of the annoying and unfamiliar feeling. I down the remainder of my mojito to try to get rid of the rest.
* * *
I pull up my email and start sifting through my leftovers from yesterday. Jack’s got a twenty-four hour rule on emails, and more than one associate’s been fired for breaking it. I bang out a dozen replies, setting up meetings and conference calls and answering easy regulatory questions, and mark off a couple others to dig into when I’ve gotten through the rest. I dash off quick responses to let them know I’m working on it and I’ll have an answer by the end of the day. Before I get the chance to start my research, there’s a knock and a flustered-looking Jack—no tie, no jacket, and crazy hair—storms in.
“What are you doing for the next week?”
“I get the feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“You’re going to Denver. Fucking Leo had a heart attack.”
“Is he okay?” Leo’s not my favorite, but I don’t want him dead.
“Yeah, yeah, he’s going to be fine, but he’s not getting on a plane anytime soon.” Jack paces in front of my desk and gesticulates like a raving lunatic.
“Jesus, Jack. How about you lead with that next time? You’re going to give me a heart attack, and then where would you be?”
“Please, India, don’t be ridiculous. You haven’t got a heart. But you have got a nice rack. I like this get-up. Sexy.”
“Just what I was going for.” I shake my head with boredom. Let’s get this show on the road. “So, Denver?”
“File review. You’re taking Patterson, Rodriguez, Evans, and Chow.”
Shit. Evans makes me want to staple my hand to the desk.
“Do I have to take Evans? You know he has a crush on me. It’s pathetic.”
Evans, like my trainer Adam, is a purebred puppy dog. Not a golden retriever, though—not that All-American and good-looking. Maybe some sort of spaniel? The round, adoring, melty chocolate eyes fit. Sit, stay, stop drooling. Good Evans.
“I’m not paying to change another plane ticket. You’re taking him. I’m sure your charm in close quarters will extinguish any torch he might be carrying for you. Just don’t wear that.”
I heave a sigh. If Evans ever got me naked, he wouldn’t know what to do with me. Fucking Boy Scout. No, not even a Boy Scout. Scouts are handy with knots.
“Fine.”
“You, minion, are too saucy. You get this done, and you can have next Friday off. Does that make up for the puppy dog eyes you’ll have to endure for the next seven days? Have him fetch your coffee. It won’t be so bad.”
Next Friday off? Two weeks is far better than two months. If Cris is even free. I need to call Rey, stat.
“Actual Shakespeare, Jack? Color me impressed. He’d have to get down on his knees and lick my Louboutins to make it worth my while, but next Friday off is a good start.”
My retort gets me a shake of Jack’s head but a short laugh to go along with it. Rest of the office, you should all get down on your knees and kiss my shoes for digging Jack out of what could’ve been a days-long funk. A screaming, throwing-stuff, firing-people-left-and-right funk. But you’d do it badly, and that’s insulting.
Denver, huh? I can do Denver.
* * *
Rey messengers me Cris’s new contract while I’m at my hotel in Denver. Cris had been quick to say he’s free, and I’m excited to have proof that I’ll get to see him again—and so soon. It’s a welcome distraction from the numbers and codes swimming in my head. I fucking hate file reviews. And Jack was wrong. Close contact with Evans doesn’t seem to have doused any fire he thinks he’s got burning in his loins for me; on the contrary, he’s gotten worse. Now he makes me want to stick a letter opener through my eye.
I give the contract a cursory glance—I’d be surprised if anything much had changed—but when I come to the end, I frown. Nothing has changed. Well, the dates, but that’s it. Not even the weird talking clause at the end. What the fuck? Cris doesn’t strike me as lazy. I’m insulted he’s not even bothered to review the damn thing before sending it back. I fill the tub and climb in before I punch Rey’s number into my cell.
“Hey there, Rocky Mountain Highness.”
“What the hell? He didn’t even look at it, just sent it back.”
“Not true.”
“The only thing that’s different are the dates.”
“Yes.”
Goddammit, Rey, you’re annoying. I’m sure he can feel my glower from across the Rockies.
“I’m insulted, India. Did you think I wouldn’t have looked at this before I sent it to you?”
“No.” Rey’s very thorough.
“I thought it was…unusual, so I called him. He’d like to speak with you.”
“Again?”
“Apparently.”
Oh, I’d like to wipe that smug look off of Rey’s face. “Why?”
“Maybe he liked you.”
Crap. I don’t want Cris to like me. I want him to like Kit Bailey-Isles, submissive edition. Contracts, fake names, and the ten-foot-high barbed wire fence of anonymity Rey erects around me—that is how I roll. I don’t do relationships. The damage Hunter did still smarts, and I’m not stupid enough to let that happen again.
“Did you not like him?” Rey prods.
I scowl. I did like him. Too much. And because Rey has some sort of trainer telepathy, he knows.
“I see,” he says. “I suppose you could call it—”
“No!”
“That’s what I thought. Matthew will see you there. Be good, be careful.”