Page 19 of Against The Rules

SAVANNAH

I turn my laptop on do not disturb, then flop back on the couch.

And have a little scream of frustration because my GOD. What a day. Being a virtual personal assistant seemed really great at first. Work from home, make money, dress up when I feel like it or have a video call.

It’s not a dream.

It’s a fucking nightmare, and being constantly on call to four different demanding clients is going to make me lose it.

I scrub my hands down my face, glad at least that my clients don’t have my cell. Nope. They have my free Google number, and they text me at it all the time. Not letting them have my personal number was the smartest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life.

My phone.

Where is my phone?

I sit up, pawing around the worn couch cushions. I’ve had it on silent all day, otherwise I’d be too distracted by the million and one group texts and social media notifications.

Sighing, I sink back into the cushions, unlocking it and then staring.

Four texts from Ty.

My freaking husband.

A little shiver goes through me, excitement or worry, I don’t even know.

It’s about our first… meeting.

Not a date, definitely not a date… a meeting. Between a husband and wife who have only spent one actual night together.

I stare at the notification bubble, swallowing hard.

The front door slams shut and I yelp, the phone going flying from my hands. It thuds against the pocked wood floors of the old townhouse I rent and skitters underneath a table.

“Jesus, Savvy, calm down. I get home at the same time every day.” Presley, my roommate, laughs, her keys clinking where she sets them down on the entry table.

My hand flies to my face in embarrassment. “Sorry. How was your day?”

“Eh, same old shit.” Presley disappears into her room, barely paying attention to me, eyes glued on her phone.

It’s not that I mind being alone, not really, and it’s not that I’m not talking to people all day long, because I am…

But man, sometimes I wish Presley would spend more time with me. I blow a breath out, sending the hair flying off my forehead. When her door closes behind her, I finally get up and retrieve my phone, my hips and ankles popping with each step.

I’m sore as hell, thanks to last night’s rehearsal, and I wince as I bend to grab my phone, my heart slamming into my chest with a weird mix of anticipation and guilt.

It’s Ty.

We’re on for tonight, right?

I can bring dinner, whatever you want

A couple hours later, there’s another text.

Or I can meet you somewhere? If you’re comfortable with that

Then the most recent message, from ten minutes ago:

Or I can cry myself to sleep in my mansion, because my wife is ignoring my texts

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