Page 121 of Crazy for this Girl

“Research that and grab my coffee.” I rise from my chair, but don’t get a step in before he says, “And anything else you see that shifted. New shampoo, towels, if the maintenance guy didn’t clean the pool every Wednesday or something like he’s supposed to. I want a report like I was living here at this location when it happened.”

“I’ll do that. And you can find my replacement, Mr. Harper.”

His lips settle into a wry and arrogant smirk. “While you find a lawyer, Miss Reese. Because I’ll bury you in legal fees before it even gets a hearing because you didn’t want to look at my face every day. Remember your counting. You’re sure as fuck gonna need it now that I have you right where I’ve been wanting you.”

My nostrils flare at his egocentric commentary, and his mouth only curves higher.

There he is.

There’s the petty Cal Harper that always found a means to get his own way.

“Anything you’d like to say, Miss Reese?” He cocks his head to the side, only making me want to launch myself across his desk and throttle him.

“I hope you don’t mind going past interference, Mr. Harper. I play a hard game.”

He hoists a brow, then his chin. “I wouldn’t expect it any other way.” I begin to pivot, but he stops me with, “I’m assuming you won’t be cheerleading for this one?”

“No—“ I glimpse over my shoulder at him—“I’ll be in the jersey right across from you. Make sure you stretch.”

Cal smirks, and I quickly take my leave from the room.

Yeah, I don’t know shit about football, but what Dad bitches about on the TV when a flag is thrown.

I need Google.

I can’t focus on what my private investigator is saying when Laynee is being a smart ass and giving me current up-to-date information about her dinner that I sent her on.

Since I was told she was the one who nailed the bad reviews on the restaurant inside my hotel, I asked her to eat there and give me her notes.

Not give me graphic details about every single little thing from the temperature of the room—not sure how she knows it—to the plush cushioning of the chairs.

Hence the damn notes.

She’s recently blown my phone up with separate pictures of her fork, knife, and spoon. She even made her waitress smile and sent that over too. I had to turn my phone to silent because the damn thing wouldn’t stop going off, and I’m trying to focus on another matter at hand.

“He’s a soccer coach,” my investigator, Ian, states, sipping on his latte that Marie brought in for him. “And he also sells used cars.”

“Does he have children?”

Ian shakes his head. “No, just an insatiable need to get laid.” He pulls out a few pieces of stock paper and places them in front of my desk. “He’s sleeping with all three of these moms. How he keeps them all from mauling him during practices and games is beyond me.”

Glancing down at his photos, there are three candid shots of three different women. Each either clapping, shouting, sitting down to tie one of their children’s shoes, and the other is handing out snacks out of a recycled bag.

“How are his financials?”

“Horrible. He can’t sell a car to save his life. However, he makes his rent by selling himself as an escort.”

I scoff at this very conversation and how undeniably stupid it is. That I’m having Ian actually look into this jackoff. While my dead fiancée was going to leave me for this fucking loser.

“And how long has he been doing that?”

“Since your ex died.” I don’t miss that he purposely calls her my ex, making this information a little easier to swallow.

Just to think I almost threw my whole fucking life away, and never would’ve gotten a chance with Laynee.

This chance.

I couldn’t imagine coming to Chicago, Laynee being my assistant, and not being able to pursue anything but her dirty looks that plague nothing on me, but the urge to shove her into the nearest wall and wrap my fingers around her pretty little neck.

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