Page 25 of Van Cort
Itext April that it’s done - that I told him where I stood. Or at least told Andre, who I hoped would convey my anger. Because the jerk wouldn’t let me contact him, that’s what I had to remember here. This is on him, not me.
But that didn’t stop the worm of doubt that I didn’t fit into his expensive world from burrowing into my mind and taking up space. And it didn’t stop the latent guilt at mouthing off at Andre. Or being so blunt with him.
This was Everett’s fault.
His.
I grab the vase of flowers on the coffee table and march them to the kitchen to dump them in the bin. It shouldn’t have takenme this long, but they were beautiful. And I can’t remember the last time anyone bought me flowers.
At least it’s taught me to be more cautious. Men like him might appear the knight in shining armour, but they clearly have their own intentions that might not be honourable.
Just like my snake of a boss.
Urghh, I’m surrounded by assholes.
***
I’ve managed to avoid any dealings with Antony – a small blessing – but that won’t hold. Even with arriving early to work, and with my mood still clouded with thoughts of a certain bachelor who may or may not deign to call, I focus on the numbers. I trawl through the market, pulling the patterns and turning that into a detailed analysis that will be better than anyone else’s. Because I am better. I just have to figure out how to make them see me for my skill and acumen, and not just the girl who doesn’t really belong.
Mercifully, I escape from having to deal with Antony for the next day as well, but it doesn’t lift my mood. Deep down there’s someone else I’m more mad at, and not being able to address him personally is eating me up.
So, I seek refuge in the one thing that won’t let me down. Wine.
My hand grips the neck of the bottle, drawing it from the fridge, happy to indulge, and I set about opening it as my phone rings with a blocked number.
The flutter in my stomach has my jaw locking in frustration as I stare at the screen. It might not be him, I tell myself as I swipe at the screen.
“Hello, Andie.”
I know that voice, and I can’t help the little scream of triumph my heart gives that he’s called. Still, I keep my voice flat and indifferent as I respond. “Everett.”
There’s a beat of silence, and I hold my breath, the bottle still in my hand – this is not the time to back down. He’s in the wrong. He called. Let him speak.
“Perhaps I owe you a call. After your…message via Andre.”
“I’m glad he passed that on. Although I would have preferred to have directed those words at you. Second-hand, they might have fallen a little flat.” My hand tips and finishes topping off my glass.
“He was very clear with the conveyance. Believe me.”
“Well, as my words were what it took to get a call from you, I’d like you to pass on my thanks to him.”
“I’ll make sure to pass the message along.”
Another beat of silence.
“Was this all you called to say? It seems strange that I had to go through all of this to get you to call, and then you have nothing to say.” My free hand clenches, my nails digging into my palm, waiting.
“I… enjoyed the weekend. With you.”
“Enjoy is a very polite word, if not a little insulting, given what you did to me in my hall.” My mind flashes to the heat, the urgency and outright sexiness of him taking me against the wall. Like all of what he showed me is pinned or wrapped up under the fine suits and tight tie at his throat.
It felt good to be that free – that daring. Desired.
And then nothing.
After he said he would call.
I pick up my glass and take a sip of wine.
