Another laugh. Deep and rough. “I’d like to discuss it in person.”
“I can assure you that my stance doesn’t change regardless of how we have the conversation.”
“I like to think I can convince you.”
“You’re welcome to think so.”
“I rarely wake before midday, but as you so eloquently put it, even God is making breakfast by ten a.m. Can I assume you’ll be in The Scarlet Letter at ten tomorrow?”
Blinking, I sputtered out, “Yes.”
“I’ll see you then, Ms. Lloyd.”
I opened my mouth to tell him he most definitely will not, but the line clicked off.
It was dead. The call was over. He’d forced his way into my morning and, without waiting for me to respond, ended the call.
Understanding of why Abby hated him was quickly washing over me.
Who the hell did Damien Fox think he was?
Two
Dahlia
“What did one wear to meet an arrogant dick?” was the question of the day.
Thankfully, I hadn’t packed most of my clothes before I’d left for California, so my ‘work’ clothes were still hanging, perfectly pressed, in my walk-in closet. Not that it made the choice any easier, mind you. Did I wear jeans and a smart shirt? A skirt? A dress?
Why did I care? I had no intention of spending any longer than five minutes with Damien Fox. I needed just enough time to tell him there was no chance in hell I was selling The Scarlet Letter and to get out of my bar.
I pulled a red dress off the rack and looked it over. It was one of my favorites, and the red-soled, black, Louboutin pumps I’d had my eye on since walking into the closet were the perfect match. I grabbed them before taking both the shoes and my dress into my bedroom to get ready.
I still didn’t know who the hell Damien Fox thought he was. I’d replayed the phone call a hundred times, and I couldn’t believe the audacity of him and his words. Was that how he conducted all his business? By ruthless, pushy tactics? Was anything he did honest or was it all underhand?
As far as I knew, the man had never been interested in buying Scarlet until my dad died. I was as deep in the running of it as he was, and I would have known if anyone had tried to buy it. That wasn’t something Dad would have kept from me—he would have wanted me to be prepared for this exact situation.
As it was, I wasn’t. Not even the tiniest bit. Was there a way to stop someone trying to buy your business when you didn’t want to? I assumed I could eventually get a restraining order, but that seemed excessive. Even if the person in question was as persistent as a severe bout of vaginal thrush, just like Damien Fox seemed like.
I giggled at my own thoughts. Better the string of inappropriateness came out now, in private, inside my head. I doubted that particular thought would go down well if it came out of my mouth in his company.
Although, it would be worth it, just for the look on his face…
No. I was a business owner now, and I needed to be professional at all times.
I smoothed my dress down my stomach and looked in the mirror. Indigo-blue eyes partially hidden by dark-brown bangs blinked back at me. The red lipstick slicked across my lips matched the dress almost perfectly, but none of that hid the nerves that were rolling around in my stomach.
There was no difference between my nerves and an elephant doing a roly-poly. Both were as unsettling as the other. Not that I’d ever been in the presence of an elephant doing a roly-poly, but I could imagine how uncomfortable that would be to be around.
I stepped into my shoes and gave myself one more stare in the mirror.
Goddamn this, why was I nervous? I was Dahlia Lloyd. Despite my name, I was no shrinking flower. I never had been, and I wasn’t going to start now just because a Fox wanted me to submit to his demands.
The sooner Damien Fox learned that, the better it would be for him.
I nodded at myself in the reflective surface, grabbed my purse, and went in search of my things.
And my bravado.
***
The Scarlet Letter was deathly quiet as I entered through the back door. It was so early that not even Abby was here yet, and that was for the best. She’d become fiercely protective of me after my dad’s diagnosis, and I hadn’t even told her about this meeting this morning.
If I had, I knew she’d march herself down here despite her late night just to make sure Damien Fox was handled.
He would be handled—by me. I’d become certain of that in my drive over here. He had no right to call me up and assume I’d meet with him, much less to assume that said meeting would lead to me selling him my bar.