Chapter 7
Bigfoot(dick): Asking for forgiveness rather than permission.
Chloe: Should I be concerned that Sasquatch has finally decided to confirm his existence by texting me?
Bigfoot(dick): Me Neanderthal. You woman. We make babies?
Chloe: Sorry, I don’t do the no pants dance with ten-foot neanderthals that have overly large feet. Unless you’re that guy from the bar, because he has a shot!
Bigfoot(dick): Wait, really??? It’s me, guy from the bar, otherwise known as Chase.
Chloe: No, not really. It’s rude to program your number into someone’s phone without their permission. Did you know this?
Bigfoot(dick): Can’t understand all those big words, can you communicate in grunt noises only? But listen, I have a wild proposition for you.
Bigfoot(dick): And no, it doesn’t involve my enormous dick. Sadly.
CHLOE
My fingers shake as I smooth out the thick manilla paper over my kitchen counter. This is rapidly turning into the day from hell. My eyes whizz over the words on the page, having to retrace some because the faint ringing in my ears is preventing them from absorbing into my brain.
The big, shiny brochure in my mailbox announcing that my building is going condo—but I can get a great rate if I buy, news flash, can’t afford that—I can just about take.
But this? This is too much. I pull in a sharp breath as I read the summary total at the end of the letter.
One hundred and eleven thousand dollars and seventy-three cents.
My ex-boyfriend's attorney had kindly highlighted the sum in red ink, just in case I was inclined to skip over it. Like I would ever be able to do that. I flip the page, but the other side is blank except for an embossed logo for Landau Barnes Law Firm.
I cast the letter down into my junk drawer—you know, the one that everyone has but doesn’t like to admit—and slam it shut as if that could wipe it from existence.
And what’s worse? I can’t even say this bill isn’t justified.
Because I absolutely did sneak into Anthony’s two-story swanky apartment and take a baseball bat to everything I could lay purchase on.
And I didn’t regret a single second of it.
Until now, that is. I re-open the drawer and take out the pre-action notice.
My cat chooses this moment to jump up on the counter.
I don’t even tell him off, I just watch as he rubs his janky jaw along the edge of the letter to get his scratch fix.
Pussy Galore, PG for short, is fifteen years old, with one eye and maybe three teeth last time I checked.
He’s scraggly and he stinks, but I love him regardless.
I sigh, tracing my free hand over the bony, black fur-covered ridges of his spine.
My phone chirps from my purse and I drop the offending letter, walking numbly over to answer it.
“Hello?” My voice is glum, and I don’t even bother checking the caller ID.
“Hey Red, you didn’t answer my text.” It takes me a minute to place the laid-back drawl.
“Oh hey, Chase. Yeah, really not a good time, I—” I suck in a sharp breath, the end of my disjointed sentence hanging in the air as my throat burns. I start to blink in rapid fire, fighting the onslaught of panic I can feel trying to claw its way up my windpipe.
“Everything okay?” He sounds concerned now, less teasing.
“Um yeah, everything’s fine, totally fine.” My voice is unnaturally high pitched and strangled, which makes me wince.
“Really? Because you sound kind of…” He trails off, and I can almost see his brow creasing in my mind's eye.
“Yeah, I’m fine. All good. Just my apartment is going condo and…
and…” I choke on the words, cursing myself.
“Anyway, I’m all good. I'm a big girl. I have my big girl pants on. You, big dick. Me, big girl pants. Anyway, gotta go, bye!” I hang up and almost laugh at how insane I sound.
The legs of my dining room chair scrape across the linoleum floor before I sink into it, folding myself in two and burying my head in my hands.
I am so royally fucked.
***
I throw myself into work for the next couple of days, because my life might be a burning chariot on a runaway track, but this I can do.
I’ve visited every bank in the city to confirm that I am in fact not eligible for a loan of any size due to my lack of assets.
I’ve viewed a dozen apartments for rent and found nothing nicer than a broom closet for anything remotely close to what I pay now.
All in all, I’m pretty much a sitting duck waiting for the guillotine to fall and chop off my proverbial head.
It’s because of this that I’m more amped up than usual when I step off the elevator into Dr. Pierce’s plush office on the Upper East Side.
The thick beige carpet muffles my steps as I cross the room to severe Barbie and report my attendance.
There is a fresh white vase of lilies on the desk and my fingers itch to give them a good shake so that the vivid amber pollen stains the carpet.
White. Everything is too white. Like the designer took one look at the inside of a straitjacket and thought, “Ah yes, that’s the aesthetic I’m going for. ”
Giving in to the impulse, I deliver a swift tap to one of the flower heads and smirk to myself as the vibrant pollen falls.
I head for my usual corner of the waiting room with a resigned sigh.
It’s only when I hear the familiar slip of thin newspaper sheets that my eyes snap to the side.
Peeking out from behind the newspaper are none other than the thickly muscled, long legs of Zeke Guerra.
“They assured me they had moved sex addicts anonymous to Thursdays.” I sigh as I fold myself down into the chair opposite.
The corner of the paper flips down to reveal sparkling chocolate eyes and one dark, quirked brow. “You do realize I’m your boss, right?”
I smirk, crossing my legs carefully in my black pencil skirt. A thrill runs through me as his eyes catch on the movement. “Not here you aren’t, Guerra. This”—I cast my hand around the painful expanse of white—“is Switzerland.”
He hums a low noise as he closes the paper and flips it onto the side table.
The sound is so deep I can feel it sliding like silk fingers up my bones.
Just like last time, he’s wearing weathered Levi’s, but instead of a crisp white shirt, he’s wearing a tight black T-shirt that shows off a mouthwatering expanse of tightly coiled, tanned arms. “So, in here, I’m just a man and you’re just a woman?
” Darkness flashes in his astute eyes and my skin prickles with goosebumps.
“Perfect strangers.” I force myself to hold his gaze.
He leans forward in his seat, his elbows planted on thick thighs with his broad hands clasped together.
His biceps bulge, and the web of thick veins in his forearms catches the light.
“In that case, let me tell you how much I am enjoying the sight of the top of your stockings peeking through the slit in your skirt, mi fuego.”
My throat dries and my heart hammers so hard in my chest I’m sure it could bruise.
I lean forward, both of my elbows perched on one knee, my hands hanging loose in front of me as I survey him.
His eyes drop to the open neckline of my blouse.
“Viejo verde,” I say, curling my lips up into a smirk as his brows shoot toward his hairline.
He lets out a low chuckle that vibrates from his broad chest. “Dirty old man?” I nod slowly, refusing to drop his gaze. Google Translate is a wonderful thing. “You speak Spanish?”
I tilt my head, my smile growing. “No, I looked it up. Did you know Guerra means ‘quarrelsome person’?”
He grins, that devilish scar pulling tight, and all of the air freezes in my chest. Whatever gods carved this man and put him on earth deserve a medal.
He’s not just hot. He’s beautiful. All hard lines and chiseled edges.
If I could bottle up this look on him right now and sell it, I’d call it Hot Zaddy on Steroids—I’d likely make a fortune, too.
I’m not kidding about the meaning of his name, either.
I nearly fell off my chair from laughter when I read that.
“I’m very pleased to be featured in your internet research, Miss Devlin. Although, I’m surprised to hear you admit it so readily.”
I wave one hand airily. “I wanted to know what ‘mi fuego’ means, and then fell down a Zeke Guerra-shaped hole. Besides”—I level him a blank look—“researching my new boss is a lot more PG-13 than the rest of my search history, I assure you.”
Interest flares brightly in his dark irises and his jaw muscle ticks under the expanse of curated stubble.
He’s not the only one who can push for a reaction.
I’ve all but planted the image of myself masturbating in his head and watching that thought take root is fascinating.
How we went from Switzerland to talking about porn, is beyond me. But I’m not mad about it.
He opens his mouth to respond, but is cut off by a stout, spectacled man in a simple shirt and slacks combo.
“Mr. Guerra?” Zeke snaps his jaw shut with an audible click of teeth and scowls briefly in his direction.
I let out a soft chuckle, watching the tension roll off his thickly muscled shoulders like storm clouds tumbling down a mountain.
“Enjoy that thought, won’t you?” I smirk, swiping a glossy magazine off the side table without even looking at the cover.
I’m mentally chalking a big fat one in my column for winning that round when he stands.
But then mental me snatches up a board eraser and scrubs it off as quickly as it was drawn.
Because staring back at me, exactly at eye level, is the outline of the biggest, thickest erection I’ve ever seen, packed tightly across his hip bone in his jeans.
I think my jaw physically drops, and I faintly register a deep, rumbling chuckle. “And you enjoy that thought, Chloe.”