“You know what I’m tired of? You being here.”
“Fine. I’ll leave.” The cover falls to my feet as I stand. “May I use your phone? Please?”
He gives me a snotty look. “So the country bumpkin does have manners.”
“Fuck you.” I stomp out of the room and into his office—ignoring his objections. I take a seat in his big chair and pick up the receiver. Cradling it against my shoulder, I punch in the number then lift my eyes.
Jake lingers in the doorway. His arms braced on the frame. His torso is long. Cut. Ripped in abs. My tongue darts out to wet my lips at the sight of his bacon grease splatter scars. Hell, his belly button is even hot. And the position has those already low rise pajama pants hovering dangerously close to the base of his shaft.
He’s a butthole.
He’s a butthole.
He’s a butthole.
Between the mantra, his twisted scowl and the ringing on the other end of the phone, I manage to quell the heat that builds in my belly. “Do you mind? I’m on a call.”
He mumbles something about me being fucking ridiculous, how I need to make it quick and to not touch anything, before he pushes off the door and turns. I have to mentally smack myself to get the image of his ass of brass out of my head long after he’s out of sight.
Jake Swagger is a jerk.
Chicago is stupid.
And I want pie.
It’s time to go home.Chapter SevenMy Mom goes through the five stages of grief every time I talk to her.
Step 1: Denial.
“You are not calling me from a penthouse apartment in Chicago asking me for money to get you home. Seriously, Penelope? How did this happen?”
Step 2: Anger.
“How many times have I told you to stay out of other people’s business, hmm? Now what are you going to do if Emily takes this guy back and they get married? You did more than burn a bag of dog shit, young lady. You burned the bridge of your best friend’s potential future husband well and good.”
Step 3: Bargaining.
“I’ll send you the money to get home only if you promise me that you’ll stop these shenanigans of yours.”
Step 4: Depression.
“Do you have any idea what it would do to me if something happened to you? I’m stress eating Oreos as we speak. I’ll be big as a house by the time you make it home.”
Step 5: Acceptance.
“I’m glad you’re okay. That’s all that matters.”
By the time I hang up, I’m smiling. Mom’s worry has a way of doing that. It feels good to have someone care. Perhaps that’s Jake’s problem. He wasn’t loved enough as a child. It wouldn’t kill me to be a little more understanding. After all, I have brought him nothing but grief since I’ve known him.
Ugh. Why does talking to her always trigger empathy?
And why can’t Jake be more like her and love me unconditionally despite my flaws?
For that, I make sure to leave lots of fingerprints all over the freshly polished wood of his desk. And because I’m petty and childish, I lift my towel and wiggle my naked ass on his chair.
I walk back to the living room feeling lighter. Better. I’ll soon be saying my goodbyes, but I’m not sad. Though it was never his intentions, Jake gave me so much while I was here—material for my book. A limo ride. A view of Chicago and his half naked body. Pizza. Bacon. A get out of jail free card.
Well, he didn’t really give me any of that. I stole it. But technicalities are overrated.
“I’m not fucking doing it, Cam. Forget it.” I linger in the doorway of the office, hoping to catch more of the conversation. Jake spots me immediately.
Always crushing my dreams…
I smile to show him he’s forgiven. I’m ready to tell him I’m leaving. Say my goodbyes. But he scowls at me and storms out of the room and up the stairs. Just like that, I’m pissed all over again. And the thought of leaving is fleeting. I’d rather stay until he kicks me out again for the satisfaction of knowing that once more, I got under his skin.
“It’s not you he’s mad at, babe.” Cam’s lips tip a little in an apologetic smile. It’s cute and all, but I’m still mad.
“Do you always make excuses for him?” I make my way to the liquor cabinet. Drinking doesn’t sound like a bad idea right now.
“When I need to.”
I pour myself a glass and toss back the smoky flavored, burgundy liquid. Shit that burns. I cough a couple times. Then fix another and take a seat across from Cam. “You’re a good friend. I don’t know why, but you are.”
Cam shrugs. “Jake’s like an onion. He has layers.”
“You just quoted Shrek.”
He grins. “It’s a good movie.”
“So if he’s not mad at me, who is he mad at?”