Page 10 of Sin Bin

“What if there’s a tornado and it whips through the park, and you get takenwithit?”

“Boston doesn’t have tornadoes,” I gripe with a half-grin, “and you’re evil, youknowthat?”

“So, you’re going to stay?” She swipes a thumb under her eye to catch a tear (she laughed too hard at my expense), and proceeds to shovel the rest of her food into her mouth at top-speed. I both admire and envy her youthful metabolism. Around a forkful of corn, she asks, “Please?”

“Yeah,I’llstay.”

Fornow.

At twenty-seven, I miss my freedoms of being completely independent. Walking around in my underwear and a T-shirt are at the top of the list, as is enjoying the company of men. But, sincemenhaven’t really been on my radar for quite some time now, I guess I just miss the underwear/T-shirt bitthemost.

The thought of men, however, makes me think of Andre. We’re due to have our first meeting tomorrow, and I’m both dreading it, and, strangely, also anticipating the thrill of being in hiscompany.

The thrill of drawing his blood,Imean.

The thirty-day trial at Golden Lights Media looms large like a dark, gray cloud over my head. Whether Andre wants to or not, he’s about to become the most clean-cut hockey player the NHL haseverseen.

Gameon.

ChapterFive

ZOE

Twenty-Nine Days Left …

Andre doesn’t showfor ourmeeting.

Walter barks at Gwen, demanding to know where the company’s newest bad boy client is. Gwen, in turn, sidles up next to me in the office kitchen, red hair bigger than the day before, to ask if I’ve heard from himatall.

“Nothing,” Itellher.

I feel like I’ve been stood upatprom.

I spend the first thirty minutes, after our scheduled meeting time, at my new desk, rearranging the pretty flowers I’ve brought in to force life into my otherwise barren office. The floor-to-ceiling windows allow for a lot of natural light, but the walls are white, the carpet is white, my desk is white, the damn door iswhite.

I made the grave mistake this morning of wearing a white sweater dress and nude heels, which means that I fit right into the sterile-like environment that now belongs to me. For thirty days. If I don’t totallyscrewup.

After that exhilarating part of my morning, I spend the next twenty-seven minutes organizing the mess in the desk. Whoever had the office before me was a hoarder. Tampons, three iPhone chargers, ten packs of gum, six sleeves of Post-It notes, and four travel books about Paris are all crammed into the top drawer. When my fingers land on a square, telltale foil, I cringe and throw the condom packet into the waste bucket with agrimace.

Naturally, the following twenty minutes are spent sanitizing the entire office, starting with my (white) desk chair and ending with the (brass) doorknob. Who knows what kind of debauched crap went down in here—and, no, I don’t feel like a hypocrite bysayingso.

At least Andre and I did it in the laundry room, where the laundry wasdirty.

Ugh.

That doesn’t make me feel anybetter.

Gwen pokes her head into my office around two p.m. “Nothing yet?” she asks, and I feel the weight of my twenty-nine-and-a-half days like a guillotine poised over my head. “Did you try the cell phone number inthefile?”

“Yes.” In fact, I calledandtexted the jerk no less than three times. He must know what this job means to me. Instead of pulling on his big-boy pants, however, he’s run scared. This isn’t at all like the Andre Beaumont I know, but then again, it’s been almostayear.

People changeinless.

Ihave.

Whatever starry visions of Andre I had way back when are nownonexistent.

Gwen’s blue gaze flits over the office. “Youcleaned?”

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