Page 41 of Tender Offer
Go find a hobby.
Our texts shouldn’t amuse me this much, but they do. Preston messages me about random fashion advice he doesn’t need, and I call him out on it. He knows he’s being annoying asking about scarves and pocket squares, but he doesn’t care.
Like Hugh Grant inTwo Weeks Notice.
An image loads, a book in his lap.
Preston
Found one. Back to my question.
I’m not answering after you texted me about socks at six this morning.
To his credit, he’s been mindful of the eight-hour time difference, but he still bugs me with random questions and forces an answer. I emailed him a full styling guide based on his wardrobe, which should last him until I’m back in London. I’d find his attempts cute if they didn’t start at the crack of dawn.
Preston
Did you forget we’re both early risers, Puff? I had a meeting this afternoon that required the proper attire.
They can’t see your socks under the table, Preston.
Preston
Testy. Are you always this mean to your clients? I love stroking your buttons.
“Ooh!” A sneer slithers through my growl.
Our back-and-forth reminds me of our daily emails in Paris while he was away. There was a thrill at rushing to the computer to read our thread. His dry sarcasm and my snappy responses rooted our short-lived relationship in a friendship I’ve yet to experience again.
I leave my needy ex of a client on read and wait for the crosswalk light. Los Angeles is a different kind of busy. Thetraffic on the street and the people on the sidewalk make my neighborhood in Hell’s Kitchen look like a quiet suburb.
Kojo keeps us away from the tourist spots in LA, but I’m half a block from sweating the crotch out of my underwear. Nearby parking was nonexistent, which meant a four-block trek in five-inch heels. I should’ve ordered a car, but someone insisted I rent one for the days we want to playBaywatchon the beach.
How am I the one with a driver’s license? I don’t need it in New York, but I’m always putting it to use so Kojo can play passenger princess.
At least the weather is perfect for this wrap dress. A sixty-four-degree day in late February is spring to me. No coat necessary.
I double-check the address as I approach a brick building with steel-framed windows. Kojo swears by this place every time he’s on the West Coast. Through the glass, servers bustle around seated patrons forking bites between conversations. The place is packed for ten forty-five.
I smile at the hostess and scan the lacquered black tables for my friend. Kojo said he was meeting someone here. I didn’t want to impose, but he insisted I come by after my call with a client in Vegas.
His grin reaches me from next to a painted brass column across a white marble bar. He’s in a color-block shirt that complements his hazelnut skin, which is glowing thanks to his dedicated skincare routine.
I match his smile, but it drops when I see the person at his side. The one who’s ready to do me bodily harm. The one who I forgot lives in the area.
Emma.
Had I known Kojo planned to meet with her, I would’ve faked an illness—anything to get out of attending. It was only a matter of time before he pushed us together, extrovert that he is. We all work in the fashion industry in some capacity. Emma doesn’tknow I styled her company’s pieces for Kojo’s fashion show when we were in New York earlier this month, which could make this awkward encounter deadly.
I’d hoped our paths wouldn’t cross until enough time had passed that the singles’ retreat became water under the bridge. My wishful thinking is not only delusional, but dangerous.
Death and retribution fill Emma’s calculated stare. Sweat from my palms seeps into my dress, which is now clinging to me from my trek from Timbuktu.
Will she attempt murder in broad daylight?
A crease forms between Kojo’s brows. I open my mouth to speak but snap it shut as Emma impales me with her glower.
“Madison.” My name grinds between her teeth.
