Page 81 of Moonlighter
So I spent the afternoon checking my phone for messages. And when my lawyers finally called, they told me that the meeting went as well as it could be expected. But that my stunned ex had asked for a few days to read the documents and to get back to them.
“He’ll sign, Alex,” my lawyer said. “Give him a little while to get his head around it.”
But waiting is hard.
Tonight—when I was just home from work and contemplating Nate’s emailed invitation to the game—my phone rang. It was Jared Tatum.
I didn’t answer it, of course. My lawyers have urged me not to communicate with him directly. But I took it as a sign to get out of the house. I’d opened the door to the hallway where Duff sat. “Hey, how about a change of plans? Let’s watch hockey from the rink this time.”
He’d leapt out of his chair. “Seriously Miss Alex? Me, too?”
“Of course. But we have to leave soon. There will be traffic to Brooklyn.”
“I’m readyanytime.”
And now here we are, walking down the VIP concourse toward Nate’s box. “It’s that door,” I say, pointing.
“Cool,” the kid says. “This is so awesome. And maybe we can ask someone when Eric Bayer is gonna play again?”
“Sure.” I feel my face heat, though. Because I don’t want anyone to guess my other reason for coming to Brooklyn tonight. My favorite hockey player has been missing for three games. Last week, when I tuned in to watch Brooklyn play Chicago, Eric wasn’t on the roster. And when I asked Bingley where he was, he informed me that Bayer was out with “a lower body injury.”
I’m familiar with his lower body. And it’s a shame if any part of it is injured. So I guess a subtle inquiry wouldn’t be out of place. “If it comes up, I’ll ask Nate.”
“Miss Alex,” Duff says with a chuckle. “It’s okay to be a fan girl. Everyone has a favorite player. Your secret is safe with me.”
But fan girl doesn’t even scratch the surface. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Eric. It’s been four months since that trip to Hawaii, and not a single day goes by where I don’t wonder where he is, or what he’s doing.
But I never returned his call to my office, because I don’t trust myself. If he came over to visit me, I’m pretty sure I know what would happen. Or worse—I know how bad I’ll feel if it didn’t.
“Do we have, like, tickets?” Duff asks as we approach the door. “Or do we knock?”
“The pass code is on my phone. Hang on.” I pull it out, and discover a message from Eric’s brother, Max.Call me. “Oh, geez. I have to make a call.”
“Right now?” Duff whines.
“Yup. Your boss wants to talk to me.” I step to the side, because the game is about to start. It would be rude to take a call in the suite. But if Max has news for me, I need to hear it.
“Alex,” Max answers on the second ring. “How’d it go with the lawyers?”
“No news yet. I was hoping you had some.”
“No, sorry,” he says quickly. “I’m calling about your other problem.”
“Oh.” I deflate. It hasn’t been a good month at work, to put it mildly. There was a fire at the factory in China where we manufacture motherboards for The Butler. My launch had been going well until our supply chain was abruptly threatened. “What’s the news?”
“I’ve come across some evidence of sabotage.”
“You’rekiddingme. Who’d want to sabotage the Butler?” The board will lose their minds. They already are. I’ve spent the week fielding calls about our sudden halt to production. “Are yousure?”
“I’m confident. And I’m working on a theory about who did it. Have you found another source for the hardware?”
“Several. I haven’t chosen one.”
“Is Xian Smith one of the potential distributors?”
“He did call.”
“Take the meeting,” Max urges me. “Ten bucks says he offers you better terms than anyone else, on more units than anyone else can give you before Christmas. But then you have to turn him down.”
