Page 72 of A Temporary Forever

I stand to pick up my phone and flip through my contacts. There must be someone I can hook up with. The apartment is mine tomorrow, after all.

Only I don’t feel a spark of desire to even call any of the contenders, let alone meet with them.

Annoyed, I dial Xander.

“Hey, man, ready to sign?” he answers cheerfully, and I want to hang up. The last thing I want is negotiating.

“Are you ready to give me twenty-five percent?” I quip.

“Fuck, Cal—”

“That’s not why I’m calling. What about hitting the town tonight?”

“Sorry, man, I still have a presentation to work on.”

“Christ. You used to be more fun.” Can I sound any more desperate? Or maybe I sound like I always used to, and I just feel desperate.

Is she going to stay there all night? Or is it just a hook-up and she’ll come home afterward?

“Well, I’m starting a company, and I wouldn’t be this swamped if you got on board. We would get work done and have more fun. Sunday isn’t a good time to go clubbing, anyway.”

“What’s Quinn’s deal? He won’t budge, and that doesn’t give me confidence that I can work with him.”

Yes, be a reasonable person and focus on business.Fuck, I hate how off-balance the woman makes me.

“Why don’t we have breakfast tomorrow and talk?”

I consider. I’m sick of talking about this. I want in,but we’re at an impasse. Frankly, I don’t mind if my share’s twenty percent, but I can’t give in because that would set the tone for our future collaboration. We’d be better off not working together at all under those circumstances.

“Okay, let’s talk tomorrow. Why don’t you come over to my place? I’ll text you the address.”

“Sounds good, but don’t overdo it tonight. I’ll wake you up at seven because I have a nine o’clock.”

“Okay, Dad.” I roll my eyes and disconnect the call. I text him the address and add his name to the approved guest list.

I dial Finn, but he doesn’t answer. It’s too late to call Saar, so I sit behind my desk again and review the last quarter’s financials for Quaintique-Linden. I might not work there anymore, but I’m still a shareholder.

Staring at the numbers—or trying to—for what feels like hours, I check my watch. It’s only been ten minutes. Molasses flows faster than this evening.

I sigh, refocusing on the numbers again, but they blur together in an indecipherable mess. I snap the laptop shut and stand, stretching my stiff muscles.

Making my way to the kitchen, I ignore the feeling of loneliness. This used to be my kingdom. I lived here alone and loved every minute. Now, the space seems foreign without the green-eyed wench.

Fuck.

I take fried rice from the fridge, and without heating it up, I sit behind the breakfast counter bar. I puncture the dish with the chopsticks a few times and then promptly throw it in the garbage.

I trudge to the living room and pour myself a glass of whiskey. The night lights flicker behind the window, the city full of life.

Never have I found the view so dissatisfying. I down my drink and pour myself another one. By the third one, I decide to go to sleep, but for some reason, I can’t make it upstairs.

I want to see her face when she comes home. The sick bastard in me wants to see if she looks as satisfied as she did on Friday night.

For hours, I alternate between pacing and sitting on the sofa. I doze off for a few hours, but as the morning sun peers through the windows, I’m wide awake and even more… What? Am I jealous?

I laugh out loud. That’s preposterous. Ignoring the lingering headache, I pour myself another whiskey, because that’s the way to start a day. I freeze when the elevator dings open.

I whip around, and my gaze collides with hers. Something perverted in me rejoices, because she definitely doesn’t look better than yesterday, or more satisfied. More like she slept about as much as me.

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