Page 4 of Tempting the Billionaire
We just need to figure out how best to do that without causing attention.
The idea of a rebound reenters my mind, and my attention flicks back to that new sales associate we’d hired today.
Emma Hayes.
Damn, she was cute. Long, wavy hair—a shade of red I don’t think I’ve ever seen. Even under that suffocating blouse she was wearing, I could tell she had nice curves. And that smile?
I shake my head. I’m just horny. And sad. And lonely. Emma works for me. And is fully off limits. And looks to be barely out of college. Jesus.
Although I suppose it doesn’t hurt to admire from a distance. Respectfully, that is.
I’m going to have to be careful with that one.
I sigh, standing up and taking my empty can to the recycling basket under my sink, readying myself for yet another lonely night ahead of me.
Chapter 3
Emma
I stare down at the text from Justin on my phone screen. A pit of dread forms in my stomach, and I toss the phone onto my couch.
He’s been texting me for the last few days, wanting to talk. And I’ve been ignoring him.
I know it won’t do us any good. We’ve had more than enough conversations. Conversations with him begging me to take him back, conversations with him berating me for being a bitch and leaving, conversations wanting to dissect our relationship and try again. We’ve had more than enough conversations for both of us to find closure. Anything more just isn’t needed.
In fact, anything more is just painful and scary and frustrating.
But it seems like the longer I ignore him, the more persistent he becomes.
I hear my phone vibrate from the couch, and I heave an irritated sigh while digging through the fridge to try and drum up some ingredients for dinner.
I hear my phone vibrate again. And again. And again. And then I realize he must be calling me. I let it vibrate away, and finally it stops. But then, barely thirty seconds later, it starts up again.
I sigh angrily, stalking across the apartment to grab my phone, glaring down at the screen. Giving in, I answer.
“What, Justin?” I snap.
“God, finally. Why haven’t you been responding to my texts?”
“Why do you think?” I retort.
“Look, we need to talk. Can I come over?”
“No.”
“Come on, Em. I know what apartment complex you’re in, I just need the number.”
“How do you know that?” I demand.
“I asked around.”
I glare at the wall ahead of me, wondering which of our mutual friends snitched on me. “Justin, we’ve already gone over everything there is to go over, there’s no use in—”
“It’s not about getting back together,” he interrupts me. “I promise. I know it’s over. I just … want some closure.”
I pause, unsure whether to believe him. Does he really mean it? “I, uh …”
“Come on, Em. Let me just get a bit of closure. It’s the least you owe me,” he says.
