Scar
Rita shows up at my office bright and early wearing the same pantsuit she had on in Boston, looking like she hasn’t showered in over a day, her eyes red and bleary, her hair up in a messy bun.
She stares at me, standing there in the doorway like she wants to walk over and strangle me.
All I can think about is that kiss.
That one, stupid kiss. I did it for a reason: to sell the story. That’s what I’m always doing, selling the story. To a jury, to a client, to friends and family. Always selling the story.
But that kiss was obscene. It was lurid, lovely. Her mouth was a feast. Soft, plump lips. Tongue like heaven, silky and smooth. Even her taste was unreal, spicy and delightful. I held that kiss for way too long because I didn’t want to let it go, not after feeling something so good for the first time in a long time.
“I didn’t expect you to show up,” I say.
She shrugs. “I didn’t expect to show up either, but I had a visitor last night.”
My eyes narrow. “Visitor? Who?”
“Gregory Callahan.”
I sit back in my chair, not sure if she’s fucking with me or not. But the look on her face suggests this isn’t a joke.
“When?”
“Around five yesterday.”
“Why didn’t you all me immediately?” I ask through my teeth. What the fuck is Gregory doing here? Why was he at her hotel room-and how did he know she was there?
She looks away. “I got drunk.”
“Excuse me?”
“I got drunk, okay? I drank a bottle of champagne, ordered a second one, drank that, got sick, ordered a third bottle, but fortunately passed out before I could start on it. I’m having a really, really hard time over here, and I do not need your judgment on top of it.”
I blink slowly at her, trying to parse what she’s telling me. “Gregory Callahan visited you, and instead of calling me immediately… you used my card to buy champagne.”
“My ex got engaged. And my mom’s in a quadrople. Also, don’t forget, my apartment burned down.”
“What the fuck is a quadrople?”
“I don’t know,” she says, throwing her hands up. “A four-way couple. Can you just please focus?”
“I’m trying to come to grips with this new information and struggling to understand your decision making.”
Her expression darkens. “I’m not in a good place, okay? I drank a bottle of champagne and passed out on the floor. Are you happy?”
“No, Rita, I’m not happy. It freaks me the fuck out that you decided to get drunk instead of calling me.”
“I didn’t decide to do anything, okay? I’m barely holding on here.”
“What the hell was he doing in Dallas?” I say, more to myself than to her.
She walks over and slumps down into the chair across from my desk. “Looking for you, or at least that’s what he said. I think he was checking into the marriage story.”
“Why?” I shake my head. “Why would he care?”
“I suspect the paranoid, violent mobsters you’re trying to work for don’t like to be lied to.”
I rub my face. What the hell is going on right now? “Tell me everything Gregory said from the moment he arrived to the moment he left. Don’t leave anything out.”
Her jaw works, but she does it. Rita might be a wreck, but she’s smart, with a phenomenal memory. I get a detailed story, and when she’s finished, she pulls her knees up and hugs them tightly. Giving me a nice view of her thighs, which she doesn’t seem to notice.
I stand, pacing behind my chair, doing my best not to stare at her legs. What the fuck is wrong with me, thinking about that right now? When she looks like she’s about to puke on my floor any second?
“You’re right, Gregory’s skeptical. The others might’ve bought it, but he definitely didn’t. Did he say how long he’d be in town?”
“Didn’t mention it.”
“I’ll get in touch with him. We’ll have to put some of my things in that room.” I raise my eyebrows at her. “Looks like you have a place to stay for a few more days.”
“Great,” she says, tone flat. “One problem solved. I’m not homeless for a little bit longer.”
“You’re lucky I’m not angrier about the champagne.”
She looks up at me, expression boiling with hate. “After everything I’ve been through in the last two days, you’re going to care that I bought some stupid bottles of champagne without asking? After you told a bunch of gangsters we’re married?” Her legs drop down as she leans forward, glaring at me. “You realize you screwed me, right?”
I stop pacing. “I screwed you? If I recall correctly, Rita, I told you to sit at that bar and not to come find me for any reason. Any reason, including your fucking apartment burning to the ground.”
“My apartment really did burn to the ground!” She balls her hands into fists. “And I’m not the one that said we were married, that was on you. How was I supposed to know you were meeting with a bunch of murdering psychos? I thought you’d be mad. Not homicidal.”
“I’m not homicidal. They are.”
“You know what I mean. I figured I’d get fired. Not shot in the head.”
I grunt, rubbing my face with both hands. Arguing with her isn’t going to solve our problem, but I’m so fucking annoyed she’s acting like I’m at fault here. Calling her my wife was a bad decision, I can admit to that, but it saved her. And it saved my chances at winning their contract.
“All right, look. We can sit here and blame each other, or we can solve this problem.”
“Great.” She leans back, arms crossed. “Solve it.”
I work my jaw. She’s giving me that stubborn glare, and while I find it weirdly fucking attractive, right now is not the time to think about the feeling of her hips under my hands, or my palm brushing against her breasts, or her lips working against mine.
How goddamn pent-up and horny am I right now?