Chapter Twenty-Three
VERONICA
There is no music in the elevator, so the silence hangs between us and even though I’m not looking at Bobby Mansi, I feel him. I feel his stare. It’s hot. Not an I’m-getting-wet kind of hot, just a make-me-uncomfortable hot.
I swallow and clear my throat, thankful that I’m only on the second floor when the elevator beeps and the doors open. I step out and turn back to him, unsure and uneasy. “I’m just—”
“One hour,” he says, pressing the code for the penthouse. “I’ll be back in one hour. You clean up.” His smile is something close to genuine, and I hesitate just long enough for the doors to close on my confused face.
I walk down to the condo door, unlock it, and step inside. It’s dark and I have no real idea where the lights are, so I feel around on the nearest wall for the switch.
The room illuminates and I step forward. What the hell am I doing here? It doesn’t even make sense. My stomach rumbles and reminds me that I haven’t eaten all day. I go into the efficient kitchen decked out in granite counter tops and stainless steel appliances, and pull open the fridge.
A bowl of strawberries and a bottle of red wine.
I’m not really a wine person, but I find a corkscrew in a drawer and start drinking that shit out of the bottle. I grab the strawberries and set them on the counter top, then slide onto a plush barstool and start feeding myself.
Damn, this is like the best meal in the world.
My phone buzzes a text in my backpack. I jump down, fish it out, and read. Don’t get comfortable. Clothes in the bedroom. You have fifty minutes.
I text back. Who is this?
Ha ha, he returns.
At least he has a sense of humor. I walk back to the bedroom and type a simple OK as my response at the same time.
When I get there, all I see is the dress, laid out on the bed. Black. Short. Sexy. Then the black f**k-me boots. Damn, this guy has my style down. There’s some packages of expensive makeup that never in my life have I ever owned. I’m happy with the Cover Girl shit they sell at Target most of the time. And next to the makeup is a basket filled with hair products.
I sigh. This is a new feeling for me. Being taken care of like a woman. I’m not complaining about my dad’s parenting skills, he was not terrible at it. But no one has ever just… supplied me beauty things.
I love it. Like, I mean, I really love it. I hate struggling and even though lots of confusing things have happened in the last week, lots of really great things have happened too. Like today at the shop. I never once thought about the blood. I was too excited that Spencer sent Carson over to help me. Too thrilled with the fact that he’s had Carson leading me around, keeping some sort of big-brother eye on me. How long has that been going on? I’m not sure, but I think it’s new. Spencer just started paying attention to me last week when he found out I moved out of my dad’s. That’s when everything changed. And this Bobby guy has my curiosity up. I’m pretty sure he’s not gonna try to f**k me tonight, even though all of this appears to be leading up to a f**k.
No. That’s not why he wants me to come to dinner.
My phone buzzes again and I glance down. Forty-five minutes, is all it says.
I’m not actually sure why Bobby Mansi wants me to come to dinner, but I’m curious enough to find out.
Ten minutes later I’m clean. Twenty minutes later my hair has been blown dry and my head is dotted with hot rollers. Thirty minutes later my makeup is done. Forty minutes later I’m wearing the dress and I’m trying to get the f**k-me boots on. They are not so f**k-me accessible without a zipper. Spencer would never waste time trying to get these f**kers off. Nope. I’d be sleeping in them.
This makes me smile. Like so big. God, to be sleeping with Spencer in f**k-me boots again. I’d do almost anything to make that happen.
A knock on the door pulls me from my mini daydream and my heels click in that sexy whore-in-a- p**n o way as I walk down the hall to answer the door. I pull it open and put my hand on my hip because I’m feeling a little sassy right now. “You are one punctual guy. Is that your best quality?”
If I was answering for him, I’d have to say no. That is not his best quality. Because he’s standing in front of me in a dark suit that looks like it cost more than my ex-Mini Cooper, his hair is coiffed back the way the magazine models are wearing it these days, and he smells like sex.
“It might be,” he says seriously.
Yeah, that f**k-me scent he’s wearing is as much about me as these f**k-me boots are about him.
Weird.
“I’m ready.”
He smiles and then points to my head. “Not quite.”
“Oops, BRB.” Oh God, I’m so embarrassed. I left my rollers in. I do the high-heel tip-toe run back to the master bath and start taking the pins out. My hair rolls down my back in loose bouncy curls and I take an extra minute to fluff it up properly, then let out a deep breath and walk back down the hallway, grabbing my leather jacket off the barstool.
Bobby eyes it suspiciously. “There’s a nice coat in this closet,” he says, pointing to the door off the small foyer.
“I’m good,” I say back as he guides me out of the condo with a gesture, but not a gentle hand on my back like Spencer does. That’s another flag. Not a red one, but it’s at least a yellow. Because he’s got me all dressed up for a date, he’s feeding me dinner in his penthouse, and there’s an underlying air of romance about things.