Page 105 of Catfish

“Draw up a new contract or revise the original, then I’ll think about it.”

He presses his lips together. “Think about it? Don’t waste my time if—”

“I’ll need to make sure you didn’t sneak anything else in before I sign it.” I cross my arms, letting him know that I’m serious.

That I’m not new to this.

He crooks his neck and clenches his jaw. "Very well, I'll have it sent to your office tomorrow." He turns to leave, but I stop him.

“That quickly?”

"Well, you already crossed it out with red pen," he states. "All I have to do is add in my parts."

“You’re going to write in your parts?”

“One of my stances is on protecting the environment, Miss Shelton, I don’t want to waste paper.” My lips part then curve into a smile as I watch him walk away. Happy that I was right.

There is someone who lives under that boulder of a man. He just keeps him hidden under lock and key.

? 976-Evil — Deftones ?

I can hear their cackling outside my office, getting along better than I had hoped. I just wanted them to do their jobs, for Em to stop harassing me about Reagan having a desk and forget about the whole damn thing.

Forget about how she’ll be here more often than not because of all the events Em has planned for me. That she’ll be walking around in shit she deems as appropriate to wear on Mondays and Fridays.

She added that little tidbit into her contract before signing it.

Well, it’s Monday, and she’s dressed in a coral-colored dress that flares out at her hips, thank fuck, but still dips low enough to make it hard not to peer down at her breasts when she’s standing in front of you.

She caught me once in the kitchen grabbing coffee, and I've stayed locked up in my office ever since.

Texting her as Chase was as close as I was going to get to the raven-haired she-devil in my midst. I haven’t tried to text her in days and, even then, she felt a million galaxies away.

I glance down at my phone. The device tempting me to try it again because, like I said, through cyberspace was as close as I was going to drudge into.

Me: Good morning, Sox.

Me: Word on the street is that your number two hitter is injured, should we find something else to bet on?

The text is lame as fuck, but I send it anyways. It's the only opening I can think of when I already have a hundred things to do today, along with tedious phone calls to make and shit to read.

If she doesn't respond, then it is what it is. It was good while it lasted, and I'll just continue to do what I do best and drown myself in my work.

Reagan: Ye with little faith, Yank. I’m not scared of one player being benched.

I smirk. I honestly didn’t think it’d be that easy. But then again, I don’t have much to go by. She knows me as the secluded Governor Wade Lockwood who keeps his shit sealed tight, not the me who begs to be let free.

Me: I’d ask you if you want to back out of the bet I was going to propose, but you sound pretty confident.

Reagan: Very confident. What did you have in mind?

Me: Twenty questions.

Reagan: If you win, you want to ask me twenty questions?

Me: I do.

Reagan: I’m a little insulted.

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