Page 88 of Reverse

Tack texts me for my location. Just as I go to pin it, I glance up at the street sign as those around me begin to walk forward. The walk sign blinks in haste for me to obey just under the glaring street name—BUTLER.

Unable to dismiss the irony, I take a page from my mother’s book and dial her number, knowing she’s probably watching her phone ring. Not once in the two months since she left has she declined a call, but she hasn’t answered a single one, either.

Knowing it’s a lost cause as her voicemail prompts me to leave a message, I consider telling her why I continue to call, but at the last second decide to hang up because she must know.

She knows, and she’s willing to let go of it, so it’s past time I give up.

Tack texts me back, and I shake my head in exasperation as I glance at the time. A time stamp I’ve been encouraged to wish upon my entire existence thanks to my mother’s superstitious rituals and the part she believes it’s played in her life.

11:11 AM.

TWENTY-SIX

“Come Find Me”

Emile Haynie, Lykke Li, Romy

Natalie

“Hey, love,” Elena sounds through my console. “I’m going to head home. Do yourself a favor and get some rest this weekend.”

“Is that your way of saying I look like shit, Elena?” Silence ensues on the other end. I know it’s because she hates it when I use profanity. My father can cuss like a jilted, drunken sailor, but God forbid I swear around her. Sadly for her, I’m just the asshole to keep doing it. “Tough room,” I joke. “I’m right behind you. I’ll lock up.”

“’K. Have a good weekend, sweetheart.”

“You too.”

The pit lights dim as Elena makes her exit. I revel in being the last in the office some nights, especially when the sun sets late because of the time change. Behind my desk, I light a tiny candle for a slight shift in atmosphere before ambling down the hall to claim a dark beer. A taste I acquired in Seattle and refuse to part with, allowing it to be a small consolation.

Twisting the top off, I wander back toward my office as I scroll through the latest hourly headlines and stop altogether when my phone rings.ECfills the screen as it rumbles in my hand, feeling like a five-alarm bell though I keep it on silent. With the slide of my thumb, I could hear his voice and possibly stifle the ache that’s been nagging at me for endless weeks. At the very least, I can congratulate him.

“Maybe you should fucking answer it this time, ’cause from where I’m standing, it looks like you want to.”

The bottle damn near slips out of my hand as I look up to see Easton standing just short of entering the pit at the edge of the lobby. His phone rests in his palm, his eyes damning, his beautiful features twisted in a mix of irritation and hurt, chest heaving like he just ran here.

I stand stunned, tempted to fly to him and rain his gorgeous face with kisses. He’s nothing short of breathtaking in a simple T-shirt, board shorts, and high tops, his black cap flipped backward, giving me a clear view of his face and rapidly darkening expression. His hostile eyes dip and rake me over in a slow, appreciative sweep. Today I wore a plaid tennis skirt and matching collared shirt, which bares an inch of my midriff. I left my hair down and tamed my curls before painting my lips a hot pink to match my pumps.

“Easton,” comes out more like a moan, and his eyes hood slightly in response as he takes a step forward, and I jerk my head. Coming to my senses, the exhilaration kicks in, and I rush toward him, then past him, yanking his arm to follow. He chuckles as I nearly rip his arm off, his laugh amplifying as I shove him against the exposed brick wall of the lobby near the door, praying we’re out of view of the cameras.

“You been working out, Beauty? Because I’m feeling a little manhandled.” His clean, woodsy scent envelops me as I palm his chest before looking up to him, and the awareness hits me like a freight train. My mouth refuses to do anything other than lift in a full smile.

Damnit!

We drink each other in for a few thirsty seconds before he speaks up.

“I should’ve just walked out of here, but Jesus Christ,” he rasps hoarsely, “you look so fucking beautiful.” His pained, faraway gaze shifts to focus fury on me as I try to register the fact that he’s standing in front of me.

“Easton,” I croak out, equal parts terrified and enthralled, before glancing toward my father’s empty office. “You can’t be here.”

“The fuck I can’t,” he snaps, his eyes roaming my profile again as if he’s fighting himself.

Panic takes over as some vampire-like motor functions kick in.

“Just . . . wait here,” I demand, and he nods quickly in reply. “I’m serious. Standright here. Not an inch to the left or right,okay?”

He nods slowly as ifI’mthe dummy as I rush to gather my purse, blow out my candle and flip off my office lights before hauling ass back into the lobby.

“Don’t move!” I bark as I set the alarm.

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