Page 97 of Catfish

“She’s out in the lobby,” Em says as her whole face brightens. “She’s here to see you.”

Is she fucking now?

“I don’t accept people off the street to see me,” I remark, knocking the tip of my pen against a book on my desk.

I’m not prepared for this. The last thing I expected today was to see her.

This is absolutely fucking stupid.

Since when did I go from a powerful, confident man to a fourteen-year-old with a hard-on that I didn't want Reagan to see because it's "embarrassing."

Em pouts. “What do you mean? She’s probably here to accept the job.”

“Did she say that?”

“No, but—”

“She can schedule an appointment.” I crack my laptop open.

I got shit to do.

Reagan can go through the appropriate channels to accept or decline the job. I can’t make time for this. I can’t look at her when all I do is think about her. She’s a distraction enough.

“It’ll take less than five minutes,” Em asserts with a wrinkled nose.

I glare at her. “Five minutes that I could be talking to George Toren about the ecosystem and recycling.”

Em widens her stance like she’s about to charge me.

Her and I haven't argued this much since I told her pumpkin spice lattes were the shittest thing I've ever tasted, and I hated when she french braided her hair because it made it look like she was ten years younger and I was running a child slavery operation in my office.

“You won’t need to worry about all of that when you don’t have a party planner to arrange fundraisers and dinners. Who’ll be running the events for every supporter and donor that is going to support you when you—”

"She has three minutes, Emmy," I snap. "Then, I'm kicking her out.” I get one more glower before she turns on her heels and makes her way out the door, leaving me to stew in my own frustration.

Recycled thoughts stroll through my head. It’s all the same—same bad decisions, same acceptance of how bad of an idea it is to keep feeding into this.

I still end up in the same place.

Then there was the picture.

I blow out a heavy breath and steeple my fingers together, resting my elbows on my desk. I may as well give myself an Academy Award for being the Biggest Dumbfuck in an independent film.

Not only that but I broke down and sent Reagan a picture of my cock.

Not Chase’s.

(Not that I would have one.)

That was my cock on her phone, and she's said shit about it—the cherry on top.

I get she’s mad, which should've been my first red flag. She got attached. She was a woman, what the hell did I expect? I rejected her based off the notion of her being a debt that I wasn't willing to pay out, and she took that right down to the base of her heart.

Fuck, I think I judged her completely wrong.

It’s easy to hide behind a phone, being the perfect mask. But when she was in my office the other day, I saw the raw, bold abandon that seeps through her pores. The woman who grew up in the slums then fucking dated Grant Hardison.

Oh, no, I’m sorry, was going to marry the stupid-ass clown.

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