Page 7 of Exposed

Dex’s administrative assistant sing-songing excuses to me through the phone claws at the part of me that I’m not proud of. I pull in a deep breath, because the urge to reach through the phone and slap the adverbs off her lips is strong.

Who speaks in that many adverbs?

I have no time to worry about her inarticulate and lazy use of the English language.

Dex is not taking my calls. I’ve made enough of them to test the stormy waters I left in my wake.

Not that I wanted him to take my call before yesterday. Six months ago, I told him I wanted nothing to do with him, but here I am, breaking through the same barriers I was so determined to build between us.

I swore I’d never allow him to take advantage of me again.

“Please,” I say on an exhale. It’s everything I can do to keep my tone as level as the horizon. “I know Dex and I haven’t spoken in months, but it’s important.”

“By the tone of your voice, it does sound timely. If you’d so kindly tell me what it is you need to speak to him about, I’ll happily pass it on to him,” she croons.

Croons!

I can just see her sitting behind her glass desk, her long, golden legs crossed with her high-heeled foot bouncing with glee as she studies her perfect cuticles while gatekeeping me.

“Thank you, but no,” I bite. “I need to speak to him myself.”

“It’s just an offer. I’m only trying to be helpful, Marigold. You sound exceptionally desperate.”

I shake my head and collapse onto my sofa. If I ever do get to speak to Dex again, I’m going to tell him that his assistant would be fifty percent more productive if she learned to get her point across with half the words.

“I won’t take up too much of his time. Just a few minutes.” I’ve reduced myself to begging, but it is what it is. She’s right. I am desperate. “Please, put me through.”

“Not now, dear. I’m sure he’ll return your call—you know, eventually.”

Another worthless L-Y word.

Kill me.

My head falls back, and I close my eyes.

“Thank you,” I lie.

More like thank you for the useless conversation and keeping me from making an honest living, you sour, dream-crushing, word-hogging, human mannequin.

“Have a lovely day, Marigold.”

“It’s Goldie,” I snap, but barely get out the G when she hangs up on me.

I toss my cell beside me and hope it doesn’t fall through thecracks, because as much elbow grease as I put into deep cleaning my Facebook Marketplace sofa, it’s still borderline grosses me out. There’s nothing left for me to do but stare at the ceiling and feel my positive outlook on life bleed from my pores.

I’m hemorrhaging optimism, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

I’m left with ugly desperation.

Fitting.

It matches my sofa.

I live at Colony Park, an Art Deco building from the fifties. I did not mess around when I moved to Miami. I wanted the full experience, and at the time, money wasn’t an issue.

My unit is on the top floor. I was trying to appease Mom who was chirping in my ear about safety in the big city. That was back when the universe was on my side. Someone had to break their lease on the day I called. I was so excited—I signed sight unseen and rented the place over the phone.

The charm shined through the internet, pulled me in, and made me not care about the ludicrous rent.

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