A quick glance behind me confirms he’s still locked away in his study, in the throes of a business call.
“Why haven’t you called me?” the blonde continues, sounding clingier than plastic wrap. “You’ve been back in the city for weeks. I expected a callagesago.”
Apparently she doesn’t reserve that bitchy tone for accosting perfect strangers — she’s just as uppity, talking to answering machines.
“You know I don’t like waiting.”
I don’t know Chase all that well, but it’s really hard to imagine he’d date a womanthiswhiney. Plus, she did just say he hasn’t called her… so, maybe they’re just friends, or he dumped her and she can’t let go.
Honestly, it shouldn’t matter to mewhothis woman is, because it’s not like Chase and I are together, or anything.
Itshouldn’tmatter.
But it does.
Her voice drops lower, getting even more seductive. “Imissyou, baby.”
Okay, maybe she doesn’t sound whiney at all.
Maybe she sounds exactly like she looks — tall and thin, with lots of hair and perfect skin.
Damn.
“I shouldn’t have to chase you, Chase,” she murmurs across the line.
Clever.
“I mean, baby, I’m yourfiancée.” She huffs. “Don’t I deserve better?”
Every muscle in my body goes completely still.
“Think about it, baby,” she says, then clicks off with a wet, lip-smackingmuah!noise.
The book in my hands falls to the floor as I listen to the sound of static over the line, trying not to throw up as all my fears that Chase Croft is just like every, single other rat bastard man in my life come true, hitting me with one swift kick to the gut.
All those stupid, hopeful butterflies swarming in my stomach die on impact.
***
I don’t think about it.
I just grab my purse from where I left it on the coffee table andbolt, choosing not to analyze the feelings of extreme disappointment and regret coursing through my veins. Leaning back against the elevator wall, I keep my eyes closed for the duration of my ride down to the first floor, trying not to remember another elevator ride, just an hour ago, which ended with my legs around Chase’s waist and his tongue in my mouth.
He’s the worst of them all.
Worse than my dad.
Worse than third-grade spitballers.
Worse than Rat-Bastard-Ralph.
He’s the Rat-Bastard-King.
The thought makes me want to cry.
As soon as the penthouse-access elevator doors slide open, I’m running. It doesn’t take me long to find my way through the marble-floored labyrinth of hallways, back to the main lobby. I spot the bank of public elevators I took the last time I was here and know escape is close.
Thirty seconds later, I fly past the front security desk, weave through the crush of commuters exiting the building on their way home for the night, and burst from the revolving glass door onto the sidewalk. I pull a gulp of damp, evening air into my lungs, the first real breath I’ve taken in minutes, and tell myself everything is going to be okay.