Fake Coral and Keys (Fake #2)

15. CHAPTER ONE

DAISY

Now

“ I f you put the phone down, I’ll order you dessert.”

With a grimace, I slowly lower the phone to the table, setting it face-down next to my plate. I glance at Trish and shoot her a smile. “Cake?”

“If Blake hasn’t emailed you by now, he probably isn’t going to,” Trish says, her perfectly painted red lips thinning into a line. She’s trying to be the voice of reason, but I hate it when she takes that tone with me. The, you know I’m right, so shut up and listen, tone.

I know she’s right. I just don’t want to believe it. “We don’t know that. ”

“It’s been two weeks, Daisy,” Trish unhelpfully reminds me. She sips her water and delicately sets it on the white table cloth. “You guys have been corresponding weekly for months. Then he disappears. He’s probably not going to contact you anymore.”

“He may.” I run a finger along the condensation collecting on my water glass. It makes me think of the fruity drinks in Key West, the humid air that made everything stick to you, and the way Blake’s touch heated my skin like he burned as hot as the sun. I glance at my phone, then back up at Trish. “He still might. Thanksgiving is two weeks away. He will contact me. He knows how important the Gatherings are.”

Releasing a heavy sigh, Trish leans back in her seat, crossing her arms over her full chest. For a five-foot-two woman, she has huge boobs. And they’re real, which makes my B-cup self very jealous. Everything about my best friend is small and pretty, like a fizzy, red-headed, freckled fairy, except for those breasts that constantly threaten to bust the buttons of every top she wears. She gives me another pained smile. “We are not talking about what’s-his-name again.”

I nod and pick at the salad on my plate. Blake and his lack of communication have dominated every conversation we’ve had for two weeks straight. But who can blame me? We’ve been sending weekly emails since we left the Keys, and it’s been great. Slowly getting to know each other. Slowly…

Who am I kidding? They have been brief messages from him. The questions I’ve asked went unanswered, or the responses were so vague he may as well not have bothered. And what have I done? I’ve eaten up every word and reread every email looking for subtle clues that he is interested in me, not just our weird arrangement. If I’m going to be honest with myself, and right now, I really need to face reality. I’ve been obsessing. Bad.

If there were ever any signs that I didn’t need to be in a relationship, this was it. What woman thinks obsessively over a man like this? I roll my eyes at the thought. All of us at some point or another. Most of us just learn to function normally and not obsessively check our phones. Maybe my old therapist was right. I allow other people’s actions to rule over my life. My focus should be on me, my life, and building it how I envision it, not centering it around another person. Blake’s so wrapped in red flags it’s practically a cape. A couple of orgasms and I’m pirouetting into my old ways, checking my phone, questioning myself, my looks, the way I acted at the last Gathering, rereading every single word I’ve sent in my emails to him, worried that I’ve scared him away by being too inquisitive or too… something. I’ve run our last encounter through my mind and almost had myself convinced I’d said or done something wrong. What that is, still eludes me, but that tingling doubt has settled into my brain and refuses to let go.

“Just because he didn’t contact you, it doesn’t mean there is something wrong with you.” Trish’s words make me wince and shrink into my seat. “You have done nothing wrong,” she reminds me. “There are a million reasons why he hasn’t emailed, and whatever they are, they are none of your business unless he contacts you to tell you.”

I reign in my thoughts, trying to pull myself out of falling into yet another downward spiral of self-deprecation. Trish’s right. Spinning around in circles in my head only adds to my misery. I need to face the fact he may not email me again. I have more important things I should focus on, like the fact that a publisher picked me up over a month ago.

“Tell me about the latest manuscript,” Trish says, getting me back on track and the reason we are meeting today.

“It’s a murder mystery.” Excitement over sharing the plot creeps up my spine like it does every time I get to talk about my books. “But with a lot of sex. ”

Trish twists her mouth into a sour expression. “So Agatha Christie hunts the killer, then finds out she’s been banging him the whole time?”

I slump into my seat. “Yes. Exactly that.”

Trish eyes the server, signaling for the dessert cart. “You need a better ending.”

“That’s what the publisher said,” I confess. Except she wasn’t nearly as nice about it. I remember cringing as my agent read the email, only giving me a few snippets to save my feelings. “The publisher wants me to change the end and get back to her before Christmas.”

“They know best,” Trish says. “Besides, you signed the contract, so you have to change it now.”

Even though I don’t agree entirely, I signed with the small publishing house just a few weeks ago. They will publish my manuscript after I change the end. To what? I’m not sure, but I plan to keep the end close to what I’ve already written. Maybe just spice it up a little. “What’s a better story than falling in love with the villain and he murders people for you?”

Trish’s bright blue eyes narrow as a large piece of chocolate cake is placed in front of her. “I’m not sure if I should be a little afraid of you or admire how fully you embrace your dysfunctions. ”

“Admire,” I say, grabbing a chocolate eclair from the cart and taking a minute to snap a picture.

“Really?”

Trish’s dry tone makes me look up after I post the picture on my accounts. “What?”

“It’s a fucking eclair.”

I point to the purple pansies decorating the silky chocolate top. “It’s pretty. Besides, Lily and Erin agreed I need to be more active and work on my brand well before my book’s published.” Picking up my phone, I recheck to make sure I had tagged the restaurant.

“Oh my god.” Trish sighs. “Tell me you aren’t.”

I swallow, blinking innocently at her. “Aren’t what?”

“You’re posting on Insta and tagging your location, so if Blake happens to check up on you, he’ll see where you are.”

“No.” That’s exactly what I’m doing. Ever since I found out Blake was checking my Instagram profile to look at my pictures, I’ve made it a point to post several times a day.

She throws her hands up and the people near us look over. “Fine. We will do this.” She picks up her phone, angrily tapping at the screen. I watch her face, her brows furrowed, her lips pursed, and I finally realize what she’s doing.

“There is nothing online about him. ”

Trish gives me a sideways look and resumes typing on her phone. After a minute, she drops it in her lap. “So you obviously tried looking him up online.”

“Yeah,” I admit, taking a bite of my dessert. “He’s a ghost. Nothing but his business website and the new Instagram profile. No pictures. No nothing.”

“So how do we gather intel on this guy if there is nothing online?”

I look down at my half-finished eclair, then shovel a large bite into my mouth before saying, “I can go to his office. See where he goes from there.”

Trish leans forward, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry. I don’t think I heard you properly around the mouthful of food. Did you just suggest following the man?”

I swallow the bite. “Just to see if he’s telling me the truth.”

“Oh, okay,” Trish says, her voice lowering as her eyes dart around. She grips the edge of the table and leans forward. “So we are going to be stalkers now?”

“I didn’t say we. I just said me.”

Trish leans back, crossing her arms. “Do you hear yourself? ”

Pushing the plate away, I glance around the restaurant, then back to my silent phone. Yes, I know how crazy I sound. I feel crazy. Not knowing if Blake is going to contact me is far worse than the months I went knowing he couldn’t contact me. Now his lack of communication is a choice. Before, I liked the romantic notion that he was pining over me as hard as I was with him. Seeing him, then spending all those days with him?

I felt something. He did too. He had to. I felt it in every soft kiss. Every delicious touch.

“What about a background check?” Trish says, interrupting my thoughts.

I want to rub my hands over my face, but it will mess up my makeup, and I still have to meet with my agent before I go home. Instead, I opt to run my fingers through my hair, squeezing the roots to relieve the tension building in my skull, but I’m just reminded of Blake tugging at my hair as he…

I drop my hands and sigh. “You mean like those pay sites?”

“No, I have a better idea.” Trish picks up her phone again. “Remember David?”

“Crybaby?”

“Yeah, he’s a cop, remember? ”

“Yeah, I remember,” I tell her. It was hard to forget. I heard the story of how he almost gave her a ticket, but she started crying so hard David ended up offering to buy her dinner. He was so love sick for Trish it was almost gross to watch. When she called things off, he was heartbroken. He called her for weeks, leaving messages so mangled by his sobs the only word we could make out was, “Please.”

“Well, maybe I should give David a call.” She grins. “See what the old boy is up to?”

“But you broke up with him for a reason,” I remind her.

“He was allergic to my cat,” Trish says. “But he was a good fuck.”

“Why would you call him?”

Trish glares at me like I’m horrifically stupid. “He’s a cop. He can run a background check. See if Blake has a record.”

“That’s a bit invasive.”

She blinks at me. “Because following Blake around is so much better.”

Slumping into my seat, I cross my arms, debating if I want to be that person. It takes only a minute to realize that I am that person.

“Fine. Do it.” I point at her. “But don’t come running to me when David starts crying into your voicemails again.”