Page 64 of Double or Nothing

Chapter 30

Kat

Last night, standing on my porch, Sutton kissed me.

It wasn’t like the kiss in his hotel room or even the one I initiated at the club. It was filled with emotion, soft and sweet, his way of apologizing and asking forgiveness. It was the kiss you never want to end.

At that moment, I caught a glimpse of the man I love. The one I thought somehow disappeared the moment he gave me that ultimatum.

That’s when I broke the kiss. That’s when I pressed my hand to his chest, pushed him away, and told him I couldn’t do this.

He stepped back and told me he would give me whatever time I needed but assured me this wasn’t over.

“That kiss, Kitty Kat. It proves you still love me, and I’m not letting go this time.”

Rolling over in bed, I grab my phone.

A glutton for punishment, I scroll through social media. Photos of Sutton with random women fill my feed, not just any women—gorgeous women, models, musicians, movie stars—each one making me more insecure. Why would he want me when he’s been with these women for the past five years? I’m just plain old ordinary me.

Nothing is recent, though. Nothing from Vegas except, of course, the one of Mac dragging him away from me.

Is what he said last night real? Does he really still love me?

The bigger question is, even if he does, can I forgive him?

Needing to think about something else, anything except Sutton, I check my messages.

The moment I hear Jack’s voice, I sit straight up in bed. Not just one message, but three. I listen to the first, then the next. The third is the real kicker. He finally tells me why he’s so pissed at me. Because I didn’t meet Sutton at the restaurant as requested. I didn’t fulfill my job duty.

Son of a bitch.

Grabbing a dress from my closet, I slide it over my head before slipping on my sandals. If Sutton thinks I’ll let him get away with this, he has another think coming. Using my all-access pass, I barge into Sutton’s hotel suite without knocking. He’s sitting on the couch, a remote in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.

“Hooker hangover?” I ask, with my hands on my hips.

He looks at me, confused. “What the hell is a hooker hangover?”

“Hooker, groupie, whatever you want to call them,” I shout.

“I still have no clue what you’re talking about, but if you want to check the bedroom, feel free. We’re alone.”

“Good, then you’ll have no problem telling me why the fuck you called my boss and ratted me out for not showing for dinner.”

“I didn’t call Jack.”

“Oh, really?”

I play the message on my phone—Jack berating me for not taking care of my client. My very important, very rich client, who I’m supposed to be at his beck and call, followed by an order that I better get my ass to the hotel and get things under control.

“Wasn’t me who called him.”

“Then who?”

“I don’t know, maybe your boyfriend. He and I didn’t exactly have the best of interactions last night.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend. I don’t even…” I gasp. “Callum.”

Callum wouldn’t go that far. Would he? I know he was pissed about the Sutton deal, but to attack me? Throw me under the bus? There’s no other explanation, though. No one else would do that to me.

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