Page 96 of Crazy for this Girl

“That’s sixty dollars and thirty-seven cents,” I state evenly. “Did you need a card?”

“I hope this isn’t your day job,” he growls out before glancing down at his black watch. “Your customer service is lacking.”

“Did you need me to help you count your money too or will you be paying by card?”

He rips one out of his black leather wallet, then slaps down the golden etched JP Morgan Chase Palladium Visa card, and my jaw locks in pure rage.

You have to get an invitation for one of these cards and a cardholder has to have a minimum of ten million in assets that is managed by Chase bank. It’s exclusive as hell, which means, a fancy suit, a really nice watch…

I glance out to one of the picture windows of the building and onto the street, noticing a blacked-out town car parked along the curb. With a uniformed driver in all black and a matching hat standing patiently along the sidewalk, watching people casually stride by.

Three things—all I need to know, really—to show me that Cal Harper is doing just fine.

My imagination came up with so many off-the-wall scenarios of him being shipwrecked or being really down on his luck that he didn’t have time to speak with me, even pay his cell phone bill. I thought maybe he was on the run from something he got accidentally caught up in, needing a new identity and living his life under an alias.

However, his appearance and arrogant demeanor narrates that I was a second thought and life has gone on.

Snatching his card, I swipe it along the card reader and wait for Aunt Sharon’s slow ass internet connection to put the payment through.

“You never responded to my text messages,” he mutters, as I keep my eyes securely locked on the pending message reading across the screen. “Did you forget how to use a phone?”

“Nope.”

“So, you are ignoring me?” I remain silent because, well duh. “We need to talk.”

“You need to fuck off.”

“Laynee…”

“Aww…” I slice my blue eyes up to him and hit him with a faux shock that I obviously don’t feel. “You remember my name.”

His nostrils flare at my smartass remark. “Are you fucking kidd—”

“Aunt Sharon,” I holler out, not desiring to hear him explain, excuse, or even try to get me to agree to listen to any worthless explanation he has to say. It’s over, it’s done, I can’t keep pining over the thought of him in general. “Your machine is busted.”

He quirks a brow. “So, that’s how you got the job.”

“It’s just slow,” Aunt Sharon yells back as I strain to keep a level face. “Give it another minute.”

Fuck. My. Entire. Life. Right. Now.

I reach out and hand Cal back his card. “You can go. I’m sure it’ll go through.”

He doesn’t make a reach for it.

Instead, he just keeps watching me like I’m some freakshow he stumbled across. I watch those immaculate sculpted lips heave in a conceited smirk before he says, “Let’s just make sure, shall we?”

I want to punch him in the balls and listen to him squeal for putting me through another second of agony with him because I don’t have much time left. I’m about to have a mini panic attack at any given moment because I can feel the pace of my heart about to give out at how quickly it’s pumping. How my skin is crawling in warning that by being in the same room with him is going to make my potential of moving forward without him die out quicker than it did for me to get to this point.

“I’ll pay for it if it doesn’t.” I wiggle his card for him to hurry up and take. “Anything to make you leave.”

“Business 101, Laynee,” he chides slowly as if he’s training me. “Never piss off the customer.”

“Noted.”

“And you return phone calls or messages.”

“I will if they’re business related.”

---