Page 11 of P.S. I Miss You

“What?” My face scrunches. I’m beyond confused. If this is his way of hitting on me, so help me …

“He left.”

“Who left?” I ask.

“That guy,” he says, nodding toward the front door. “The guy that showed up in a three-piece suit, driving a Ferrari.”

“Robert?”

“Didn’t get his name. Anyway, I told him to leave.”

My eyes widen. I could punch him right now. “Do you have any idea who that was?!”

Sutter shrugs. “Nope. Don’t know. Don’t care.”

“Robert McCauley,” I say his name slowly, enunciating every syllable.

Sutter shrugs again, like the name still doesn’t register.

“He’s a very important producer,” I say, lips numb and wavy. My hands are shaking. My voice too. “We’ve had this date planned for months. Why … why would you do that? What gives you the right?”

“I did you a favor.” He leans against the counter, resting on his elbow like we’re just having some casual conversation.

“You have no idea what you’ve just done.” My jaw tightens so hard an ache travels up the side of my cheek, lingering, burning.

He shakes his head. “Guy just wanted some pretty young thing on his arm and some sex with a woman whose libido hasn’t peaked. It’s disgusting actually. And desperate. For both of you.”

“Screw you.”

“Is that an offer?” He smirks, and I could smack that perfect smile right off his handsome mouth. Despite the fact that Sutter is obnoxiously attractive by anyone’s standards, right now, his face annoys me.

“Never.” My arms fold along my chest, tight. “Never in a hundred million years. And that’s a promise.” I abhor how juvenile I sound, but I’m too distracted to contain myself.

Grabbing my phone, I decide to text Robert, but before I do, I need to know what Sutter said.

“What’d you say to get him to leave?” I ask.

His lips are pressed against the mouth of his Rolling Rock beer, but he doesn’t take a drink. “Does it matter?”

“I need to undo whatever the hell you just did, so yes. It matters. Tell me. Now.”

He heads to the sink, finishing the rest of his beer before rinsing the bottle out and dropping it in a recycling bin by the end of the counter.

I’ve never met such a civilized asshole.

“I told him he’s not good enough for you,” Sutter says, turning to face me. His hands rest on the counter behind him and he crosses his feet at the ankles, like we’re just a couple of pals chatting and I’m not standing here in a thousand-dollar dress in thousand-dollar heels and in hair and makeup that took my entire afternoon to get right.

“Why would you say that?” My throat tightens.

Sutter straightens his posture, folding his arms across his muscled chest. “Because I know his type.”

Rolling my eyes, I bite my bottom lip to keep it from trembling. “You know nothing about me. You know nothing about him. You had no right.”

“I know enough.”

Cupping my hand over my eyes, I suck in a hard breath. I can’t look at him right now and I want to leave, but my body is so heavy, my blood so thick and hot, I’m paralyzed into place.

“There had to have been more,” I say a moment later, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “He wouldn’t have just left because some random guy told him he wasn’t good enough for me.”

Robert McCauley has an ego of steel and more confidence than George Clooney and Tom Cruise combined. It’d take a lot more than some cocky electrician telling him off to get him to ditch me.

“It doesn’t matter what was said,” Sutter says. “And stop asking because I’m not going to tell you.”

I take a step toward him, hands shaking at my sides. All the things I want to say to him are stuck in my throat, road-blocked by the sheer intensity of my anger.

My gaze burns into his.

And then I walk away, an unapologetic stomp in my step. Maybe I should flip him the finger, get in his face, scream at him that he had no right. But he’d probably like it too much.

I’m not a hateful person and I don’t hate anyone, but if I was and if I did … it’d be Sutter Alcott.

“YOU DON’T HAVE AN ice cube’s chance in hell, man,” I say to my buddy, Kai, as he straightens the folded bandana he uses to keep his long, dark hair out of his face. He hasn’t taken his eyes off the tall brunette in the corner since she stepped foot inside my house.

Then again, neither have I.

“Watch and learn.” I take a swig of beer, holding my focus on the dark-haired vixen standing in the corner talking to one of my friends.

The rest of the gang is out on the patio and a few are hanging out in the living room, but I’m afraid to let this one out of my sight on the off chance one of these other assholes think they have a shot.

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