Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
ANOTHER WEEKEND, ANOTHER SET OF TAGGED PHOTOS OF THE NEPO BABY
GREER
Imight not have been seeing Tripp until Sunday, but I’d heard from him.
And a lot more frequently than I’d expected to.
Mostly, his texts were about things I needed to know—like his address, security system code, and schedule changes he didn’t want to forget to tell me. But he also texted random check-ins, asking about my day, what I was up to, if I had plans.
And every day, including right then, he texted the same thing.
TC: Come to dinner with me.
And every day, I texted him the same thing.
Me: I can’t.
That wasn’t the truth. I could’ve. But I knew it would be a mistake.
TC: Exciting plans?
I held in a snort that would’ve echoed in the nearly empty room.
That emptiness was exactly why Friday nights were bestie laundry time. And although Wren and Maddie were shockingly both there and not off with their men, neither were doing any washing.
They got their clothes cleaned elsewhere now.
Those laundry philanderers.
Instead, Wren was using the time to paint Maddie’s nails a festive red that coordinated with her own glittery green.
And Maddie used the free time to pepper me with questions that were one step below an interrogation.
“Is everything okay? Who is that? Why do you look so annoy—” Her words cut off as she dropped a glare toward my phone.
Her words came out as a hiss. “Are you texting Josh?”
My wide eyes shot to her. “What? No! No, no, no.”
Wren’s eyes darted between the polish and me. “I don’t know if this is a thou-doth-protest-too-much situation. I’m horrible at reading people.”
“I’m not,” Maddie said, something we all knew. It was a beneficial skill to have with her chosen career. Less beneficial if we were on the receiving end of that perceptiveness when we wanted to hide something.
But in that case, there was nothing to hide.
“I haven’t heard from Josh since everything came out,” I offered honestly.
Pure glee lit on Wren’s angelic face. Evil glee, but glee nonetheless. “Maybe that means they locked him up and threw away the key.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think my dad told anyone about Josh’s involvement.”
“But you did.” Maddie’s brows lifted. “Right?”
I started to tuck my hair behind my ears before catching myself. “Uh. No.”
“What?” they both cried in unison.
I scanned the room, triple checking that no one had snuck in while my face was in my phone.
The coast was clear, but I still kept my voice low. “My concern was any blowback on my mom and your parents,” I told Maddie. “Plus, the whole affair-with-a-gold-digging-demon. No one would even care about a nobody like Josh, and if he has a secret insurance policy like he claims…”
I held back a shudder at the stress that often woke me in a cold sweat.
“True. It still doesn’t sit right with me that he’s escaping with no consequences,” Wren muttered.
“He’s probably still working for Chase Majors,” Maddie pointed out. “That’s punishment enough.”
“Not for me. I hope he trusts a fart he shouldn’t in a very public place.”
“Remind me to never get on your bad side, Wrenley.”
“Maybe don’t call me Wrenley then, Madeline.”
Usually, the use of her full name would annoy Maddie, but instead, a blush went across her cheeks. She did her best to divert the attention away.
By, unfortunately, aiming it back my way.
“Who are you texting then?” she asked.
“Tripp.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. I mean, we’ve only had the one meeting with his agent so far, but it went well.”
“He’s not just asking you to get him coffee and dry cleaning, right?
Because as helpful as I’m sure that would be, he could hire another Alex for those kinds of menial tasks.
I don’t want your talents wasted.” She said it lightly, but tension infused her tone and her face as she gnawed her bottom lip.
I reassured my friend that the job she’d supported me taking was, in fact, a good decision. “No. But even if he was, I’m fine with grunt work.”
I would’ve actually preferred that over doing nothing my whole first week.
Glancing down at my phone, I wondered if I should offer to drop off takeout or something. Enough to check on him, but not something that would force me to stick around.
“Does he need something?” Maddie said. “We can finish your laundry for you.”
“After the sweater incident?” Wren scoffed before hissing, “Hey, don’t smack me with wet nails.”
“Fine, I’ll wait until they’re dry and then smack you.”
The sweater incident happened when Maddie had tossed my handwash-only sweater into the washing machine.
A machine set on heavy-duty.
Then she’d dried it on high.
My favorite sweater had come out as a shredded, shrunken top perfect for an American Girl doll having a grunge moment.
“We were in high school,” Maddie defended herself.
I looked up from the unanswered text. “Oh, so you always separate your clothes now?”
“No. But I’d do it for yours.”
“That effort is appreciated but unnecessary.” I tried to decide how much to share before admitting, “It’s nothing. He was asking me to dinner.”
Wren’s eyes widened. “That’s not okay.”
Tell me something I don’t know.
Her warning was accurate, but not for the reason she thought. Tripp wasn’t being inappropriate.
I was sure there would be bad days and ones that had me on the verge of quitting.
That was how all jobs were, even great ones.
But he’d already shown that he was a considerate and, honestly, far too lax boss.
If I let myself blur any lines, I would fall into the same pitfall his other assistants had.
Not that I’d be using his name to party and get laid. That wasn’t a concern. But he would view me as a friend rather than an employee.
If we had any hope of this working, he needed to feel comfortable giving me orders.
“It’s not like that,” I defended.
Surprisingly, Maddie didn’t jump to agree with Wren. Her sad eyes were aimed at my phone. “Don’t tell him I said this, but I feel bad for Tripp. He’s really lonely.”
I’d already assumed the same thing, which was all the more reason not to give in to his nightly invites.
I started to answer him before deleting it and drafting another dozen attempts. I finally landed on a response that reinforced that wall I needed to keep tall and strong.
Me: Do you need anything, boss?
TC: Have a good night, Greer.
Holy shit.
His house has been destroyed.
Maybe robbed.
And he’s possibly murdered.
I parked in the circle at the top of Tripp’s long driveway and questioned whether I should get out or just call the cops to handle the welfare check. It wasn’t a dramatic, over-the-top question, either. I honestly wasn’t sure if going inside would be disturbing a crime scene.
Because that was exactly what the outside looked like.
The scene of a destructive crime.
The secluded house in the hills was beautiful with its angular architecture and gleaming windows. On a good day, it would make for the perfect backdrop for a photo spread.
But it was far from a good day.
The place was trashed.
Beyond trashed.
The landscaping was torn up in multiple spots, leaving clumps of dirt and grass everywhere.
An SUV and a car—a sleek black sports car that was likely worth a hundred times what my already pricey Rover was—were parked haphazardly near the impressive garage.
At least, I was pretty sure it was a garage.
It might’ve been a guest house, considering it was bigger than my childhood home—and that hadn’t exactly been a shack.
I dragged my focus back to the main house to see that the furniture from the porch was knocked over, and if my quick tally was correct, there were two cushions missing from the seats.
Trash was littered throughout the shrubs and yard, including broken bottles and wrappers to—hopefully not broken—condoms.
Even with all the destruction, there were no weapons. No blood. Nothing that set off violent alarm bells in my head.
And since calling the cops would also alert the paparazzi, I decided to investigate on my own.
Like a dummy in a horror movie.
With a pit of apprehension sinking in my belly, I climbed out of my car. I kept my phone unlocked and at the ready as I slowly went inside.
An inside I was easily able to access because the door was unlocked and the alarm system was unarmed.
And an inside that was in even worse shape than the outside.
Holy shit.
My steps echoed as I made my way through the first floor.
There was very little filling each elegantly cavernous room.
If Tripp had art or decor of any kind, it had definitely been stolen.
By the time I reached the back of the house, I’d seen enough sporadically placed furniture to fill half of one room.
And a small room at that.
Did someone rent a moving truck to steal all his furniture?
Like the front of the house, the rear wall was made up of floor-to-ceiling windows. The part of my soul that came alive in nature perked up at all the natural light that filled the space, even as I recoiled at the barrenness of the wasted potential.
A quick scan of the outside wasn’t any better.
A few pizza boxes littered the patio, and pizza itself was smashed into the brick to create a pest-attracting mess that would be a nightmare to clean.
A couple of loungers and a disco ball floated in the pool, and I narrowed my eyes to make sure I was seeing correctly.
Yup, that’s a blowup doll.
With another look to confirm Tripp wasn’t face down in the pool with the plastic blonde, I continued my interior inspection.
A pool table and a foosball table occupied what was likely supposed to be a formal dining room if the low-hanging chandelier was any indication. Discarded clothes were pooled between the two, and the pit of apprehension grew into a chasm.
Maybe I would prefer to find him murdered…