Page 13 of Vengeful Seduction
I was thoroughly engrossed in an episode from an early season of Friends when a knock came at my door.
That was odd.
It wasn’t that I didn’t have friends, because I did. But they were pretty much all friends I’d made through work and this was a normal workday. Plus, none of them were close enough as friends to just randomly drop by, and I hadn’t gotten any texts about any of them coming over.
As I got up, I was still a little bit dizzy. I rubbed my eyes to try to clear them a little bit—to pull myself out of my stuffed head and itchy eyes—and went to answer the door.
It was probably the landlord, though that would be weird, since the bills were all up to date and my rent had been paid. I hadn’t forgotten, had I? It had undoubtedly been a strange week for me, but I could swear …
I opened the door, and it wasn’t the landlord.
If you had asked me the absolute last person I would have expected to knock on my door, it probably wouldn’t have been David Black. But he wouldn’t have been far off. And, yet, he stood there, staring at me with that small little smirk on his lips as he gazed at me.
No, I definitely didn’t expect that.
Suddenly, I was very aware that I looked like crap. I hadn’t even brushed my hair and my nose had to be red from wiping it so many times. Meanwhile, David stood there like he’d just stepped out of the pages of a men’s fashion magazine, or maybe even right off a runway.
Unfair. Bitterly so.
“What are you …” I remembered my manners, even if it was somewhat belated, and tried again. “David. Would you like to come in?”
“Thank you, yes,” he agreed, and I winced a little. I usually kept my little apartment spotless, but I’d been so sick that I was sure it was a mess. Desperately, I tried to remember how bad it was. I’d been too caught up in my cold-inspired pity party to keep the house the way I usually did.
At least there weren’t dirty clothes or dishes in the living room. That was something, though I was suddenly very aware that my apartment was about the size of a postage stamp. I somehow got the sense he was used to bigger places.
The way he moved through the small room was graceful. He exuded class, and I kind of hated him for that. A man who couldn’t, at the very least, take a phone call from his dying grandfather had no class. “I bet you’re wondering why I’m here.” David seated himself on my white leather sofa. He glanced around the room once, but he didn’t seem to be judging, which I was grateful for.
I had nice things. I made decent money. I’d never been ashamed of my little apartment. But I knew he lived an upscale lifestyle. It was intimidating to have a man like him sitting in my small space.
I settled down on the chair that matched the couch, as far away from him as the tiny room allowed. If he started to yell again, I didn’t want to be anywhere close to him.
“The thought had crossed my mind.” My tone was just the slightest bit wry and I didn’t try to hide it. Leaning forward, I looked at him, trying not to notice how handsome he was.
So what? There were a lot of handsome men in the world and this one had shown himself to be somewhat temperamental.
“I owe you an apology,” he suddenly stated, dark eyes fixed on me, every appearance of sincerity on his face.
I didn’t have any idea what to say. He’d completely shocked me with his admission, and I leaned back, knowing I was staring and unable to do anything about it.
The fact was, I thought he was right. He did owe me an apology, but I didn’t know how to say it without sounding like a bit of a jerk myself. So I just waited and hoped he would explain.
“I’ve been pretty terrible to you,” he did go on, after a brief, awkward silence. “I just lost it, I guess. It felt like a lot of bad things happening altogether, but you didn’t deserve anything that I said. So, I’m sorry, Kaye. I mean it, I am. I hope you can forgive me someday.”
I frowned, looking at him, scanning him for any hint of insincerity.
“The last time I saw you,” I pointed out. “You called me a …well. You know what you called me.”
I wasn’t going to dignify the statement by repeating it.
I had the satisfaction of at least seeing him wince in response. “I know. Like I said, I’m sorry. I was an asshole. I was just so upset about my grandfather, and … well, like I said, I hope that you can forgive me someday.”
How to ask this next question without basically calling him a liar? I shook my head. It was going to come out like that, I thought, no matter how I phrased it.
“You hadn’t seen him in years, from what he told me,” I finally spoke, in the least accusatory tone that I could manage. I didn’t want to start something, but his story that he'd been too upset to be polite didn’t quite seem to fit.
With a soft sigh, David raised one hand to rub at his eyes. It was a small, forlorn little gesture, and the truth was that it did a lot to make me believe him. Surely faking his words would be easier than his body language.
Besides, what reason did he have to lie to me? It didn’t make any sense. Why should he care what I thought of him?
