Page 140 of Crazy for this Girl

“Yeah.” She comes off the door and into my personal space. “Sue me. Make it messy, Cal, and I’ll make sure to torture you every single step of the way.”

“And how would you do that, Miss Reese?”

“You think this dress is something?” She quirks a cute little brow, and I immediately know where she’s going. She’s alluding to being more of a cock tease than she already is now. “Fuck with me, find out, lose me as your assistant, and have fun hangin’ out in Chicago with your hotel problems. I’ll file for bankruptcy, get it right off my record.”

“You’d fuck up your future,” I counter because she wouldn’t be that stupid, and that defeats the purpose of what I ever wanted for her.

“No…” She pokes me with an index finger. “You would, Mr Harper. Do you think you could live with that?” I stare at her, but make no effort to answer the question. “I didn’t think so.”

Detroit was a success minus Tanner prying his way into my Laynee time, my loss of temper, and Laynee’s threats.

We stopped at the other restaurant she wanted to go to, finding another for lunch that we had passed when Laynee insisted we walk through downtown to find some inspiration for the hotel.

We flew back Wednesday morning, listening to each other’s Spotify lists again as if nothing had changed or been said. Somehow, she snuck in a playlist of her own, filled with songs she added for me to listen to, which I did later that night.

It’s when I get to a cover of Driver’s License by Our Last Night that my brain self-destructs on itself about if there are any meanings behind it. It’s how I used to slide in subtle messages to her when we were kids.

Yeah, I would make a list of songs she had to listen to.

However, I didn’t send Only One by Yellowcard to my buddies either, gassing the song as something they had to hear, or their lives wouldn’t be the same.

I’m in my office working on a deal for a possible new location and researching populated tourist areas, when I see Laynee’s baby blue dress fly past my office window.

I blink, and she doesn’t enter, causing my curiosity to peak and me to rise from my desk. She just sprinted like there was a fire and I guess I kinda expected her to throw my door open and say so.

Except, deep hatred and all that.

Opening my door, I’m greeted with just another blast from the past. One that really didn’t fucking like me.

Laynee’s mother, Beatrice, stands next to her daughter in a black top with pink flowers and matching solid dress pants. Her wavy blonde hair has a touch of gray through the strains, but her vibrant blue eyes pop like Laynee’s as they stare wide-eyed at me.

Yeah, I grew up to be rich without a juvie record, you asshole.

“I’m sorry we disturbed you, Mr. Harper,” Laynee chimes in with some grit to her words as if I was going to reprimand her. “My mother doesn’t have an indoor voice.”

She might not, but I didn’t hear her through the apparent soundproof door of my office.

I lift a brow at Mrs. Reese, her smile appearing easier now that I’m sixteen years older without ratty jeans and a tee shirt with a band on it. That, and I don’t eat through her fridge.

“Cal,” she coos, her maroon-stained lips growing higher. “Look at how you’ve grown up.”

“Mrs. Reese.” I nod my head in greeting because I vividly remember Laynee texting me, extremely upset that her mother called her a loser on several occasions over the years while I was holed up in a studio apartment not able to face the world.

I recall every damning thing Laynee said in those messages. The hurt and disappointment in herself as time went by that she hadn’t done anything with her life. That she expected so many things out of her that never came to fruition.

“You’ve done very well for yourself.” She takes a step around Laynee and peers inside my office. “How long have you run this company?”

“Depends who you ask,” I deadpan.

I didn’t get full rights until I got my business degree per my father’s will, turned thirty-five, and had to suffer through middle-aged white men banking off old ideas and embezzling for an early retirement while they believed I was too fucking stupid to figure it out.

Thanks to Elliott’s help, we got rid of almost every bad apple within all the locations of companies. However, the Chicago one needs to be babied a little more.

“Mom,” Laynee hedges, grabbing her elbow. “Mr. Harper has a very important deal he’s working on right now. We’ll do lunch when I’m on lunch.”

“Can’t you take it whenever you want?” Mrs. Reese slams her focus back onto me, like I’m running a communist country over here. That I make my employees go to lunch when I order them to or not to.

“Of course, I can,” Laynee quickly retorts in my defense. “I’m just busy. I need to finish a few things first.”

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