Chapter 11 Lottie
CHAPTER ELEVEN
LOTTIE
Just a couple of days after the official closing, I find myself slipping into Knox’s car to start the next phase of our project.
The smell of whiskey and smoke and delicious leather quickly overpowers my senses as he shuts his truck door on my side.
Knox has officially made his signature scent my favorite thing ever.
Do they make a Bath this whole thing has been exhausting.
But then I stare at Knox’s profile, and think about how much more difficult this must be for him; about his relationship with Walter and how he’ll never get to fix it.
Knox acts like everything is fine, but is that even possible? It’s just a matter of time before the other shoe will drop. He’ll realize he lost the only father he ever had and it’ll hit him hard.
The urge to comfort him before he even seems to realize he needs it is strong. I clutch my hands together to keep from reaching out, from pulling his hand into mine to offer support.
He’s not mine.
Still, he doesn’t deserve my attitude, the way I’ve treated him since seeing him for the first time that morning at the store.
Jenn was right to pull me aside this morning, to give me shit for how I’ve been acting.
“Please be nice to him, Lottie. I don’t get why you’re so mean to this guy you so clearly like—”
“I’m not mean to him! I helped him when he was tipsy the other night after the party. And I definitely don’t like him,” I interrupted, crossing my arms in front of my chest.
“—but I would appreciate it if you could control yourself and whatever inner turmoil you’re currently going through and just be professional.”
I scoffed, taking a step back from her. “Are you kidding me? This coming from the twenty-year-old who asked me if I’d ever tried edible crotchless underwear just two weeks ago at our Monday sales meeting? You’re going to give me a speech on professionalism?”
Jenn placed her hands on her narrow hips and glared at me. “That was different.”
“How?”
She threw her hands in the air in frustration, rolling her green eyes. “I don’t know, but it just is! Just be nice, please? Because the way you’ve been acting recently is giving diva. We all need to work together, okay? You know this.”
She was right.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe. Because I am. It’s not Knox’s fault I’m a mess and can’t handle the way he makes me feel.
It’s not his fault the stress of this has flared up my endometriosis to the point where I threw up from the pain last night.
It’s not his fault I had to reschedule my hysterectomy until after we’re done with this project, frustrating to the point of pure rage because it means living with this pain, this exhaustion, for a second longer than I hoped.
It’s not his fault, and I’m putting it all on him just because he’s somehow made me feel more of every single emotion—good or bad—than I have in years.