Page 22 of Love Marks

“Great. See you tomorrow,” I grunt, slinging my bag over my shoulder, and storming back towards the elevator, wondering what I did to deserve the boss from hell.

Chapter 11

Wesley

She’s everywhere.

No matter where I turn, she’s there. It's like she's invaded my home and my mind. Even when she's not here, I find my thoughts wandering to her, the nervous way she bites her lip when she wants to ask me something.

Worse, the place sort of smells like her. All around the kitchen island where she was just sitting, it smells incredible. Floral, like freesias and lavender.

Freesias? What the hell?

I shake my head. I can’t believe I thought this was a good idea. My desire for retribution seems to shrink with every interaction we have. Why the hell is she being so damn nice? Asking me my preferences and what I like? Ordering specialty candles to brighten the place up? Cooking one of my favorite meals?

So maybe she had no idea about the enchiladas thing. Holy shit, though. They were amazing. I wanted to ask her where she learned to cook like that. Instead, I told her to go home. I simply couldn’t stand her presence another minute, especially with her perched on my kitchen stool in that little pink skirt.

Jesus Christ.

I know I’ve been acting like a dick. But it’s not like she’s a beacon of honesty. She’s still pretending she has no idea who I am, that we haven’t met before. She’s still playing the innocent act, as if she isn’t just waiting for me to turn my back so she can snoop in my office for her next big story.

I realize now it’s just a waiting game. I’ll keep leaving the door open, leaving out breadcrumbs for her to follow until she reveals herself. It’s not like she can keep up this facade for much longer. I can already see that I’m getting to her. She thinks she can hide it, but I see the sparks of rage behind her eyes when I speak to her. It’s just a matter of time before she cracks.

Meanwhile, thanks to Miss Taylor, I’m still dealing with the fallout of that damned story. Mainly my mother’s decline. She's on the verge of giving up completely. I went over to the apartment last night to check on her and she was asleep when I got there. The place wasn’t in great shape, either — empty wine bottles all over the place. I plan to go over there again tonight. Hopefully I’ll be able to talk to her and figure out what’s going on with her, because I can’t have two parents in rehab.

I’m sitting in my office enjoying the view when my phone buzzes with a call from George.

“Wesley. How’s the penthouse treating you?”

“It's great, thanks. What’s going on?”

“Well, I hope you like working from home, because it looks like our renovations are continuing into next week. But Gomez has assured me that the space will be ready by next Friday at the latest.”

I take a deep breath, not wanting to explode at George. It wouldn’t be so bad if she weren’t here all the time. I mean, how much cleaning does one suite need?

“Are you sure you don’t want me to speak to the contractors? I can be very persuasive.”

That’s business-talk for you’re fucking this up and should let me handle it. George just chuckles on the other end while I suppress a growl.

“Don’t I know it. It’s fine, just focus on the new development. Your meeting with the architect is tomorrow.”

“I’m aware.”

“Great. Let’s connect tomorrow morning.”

George hangs up. The more I work with him, the more he gets on my nerves. I wish he’d take this a bit more seriously. People rely on us for their jobs, and I don’t take that lightly. Still, everything seems to be setting me on edge lately. The stakes are too high right now, with my parents both falling apart and everyone looking to me to save everything.

I decide to screw work for the rest of the day and go visit my mom. I call my driver, Pete, to pick me up downstairs and he says he’ll be here in ten minutes.

I put my dish in the sink and change out of my suit into casual clothes and wait for Pete in the lobby. A few minutes later, he rounds the corner of 6th Ave and pulls in front of the hotel. I slide in the back and greet him with a smile.

“How’s your sister?” I ask, breaking the quiet between us.

“She’s good. Just hit seven months. She’s got us waiting on her hand and foot.”

I smile a little. His sister, Amira, is pregnant with her first baby. Pete tries to hide it, but he’s thrilled to be an uncle.

“Did she get those prenatal vitamins I sent?”