45. Rory
RORY
“Where to?” the driver asks when I get into the taxi at the Vancouver airport.
I rattle off my address, and we drive in silence while I stare out the window.
The charity skating event is tomorrow. Will she still show up, after the video I sent? Even though she’d never admit it, I know she’s proud of learning to skate. My stomach sinks lower with disappointment.
My phone chirps with the ring tone reserved for Hazel. My pulse jumps as I pull it from my pocket, expecting the worst. Expecting her to tell me we’re done, or that she never wants to talk to me again.
Instead, it’s a picture of some weird mess of black yarn on her duvet. Or maybe they’re shoestrings. My face screws up in confusion.
Not sure about this one, Miller . It needs an instruction manual.
“What?” I murmur, zooming in.
Within the mess of shoestrings is a clothing tag. My gut drops through the floor.
It’s not shoestrings. It’s lingerie, but I didn’t buy that for Hazel.
You’ll see , McKinnon said yesterday.
Jealous rage thunders through me. He sent her a fucking piece of lingerie. I regret not punching McKinnon in the face last night as I stare daggers at the picture.
I’m going to kill that guy.
First, though, I’m going to make sure Hazel knows exactly who sent it.
“Change of plans,” I tell the driver. “I’m going to my girlfriend’s place instead.”
I rattle off Hazel’s address and fold my arms over my chest, seething with jealousy and possessive feelings as we drive.
Hazel is mine .