I duck in and then notice it’s a pawnshop. I pretend to look at something in the back as she talks to the man on the desk.
“Well, it’s not worth much,” he says.
“I would like five hundred dollars for it. It’s in perfect working order,” she replies.
“You’re dreaming. No way.”
I peer through a gap in a bookcase and see a MacBook. Shit . . . she’s selling her computer.
Why would she be selling a computer?
My mind begins to race as the two of them haggle over the price. The shop attendant wins in the end, and he hands over two hundred dollars. I watch her disappear out the door, and I wait for a moment and go to the desk.
“Hello.” I smile casually.
“Hey,” the overweight pawnshop man mutters as he counts his till up.
This may just be the craziest thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve done some pretty crazy things in my life. “I would like to buy that computer, please.”
He frowns as he glances up. “What one?”
I point to the one she just sold him.
“Nah, I haven’t cleaned it up yet. Go to the cabinet on the left, and find another one.”
“No, it has to be that one.”
“Not for sale yet. Come back in two days.”
If I come back in two days, it will be wiped. “Name your price,” I assert, feeling brave.
He stills, and his eyes come to mine. “A thousand dollars.” He raises an eyebrow in a silent dare.
“You just paid two hundred for it—are you crazy?” I stammer.
He shrugs and goes back to what he’s doing.
I stare at the computer on the desk, and I don’t know why, but my gut is telling me to buy it. “Damn it, okay, fine. As it is, right now, for a thousand dollars.”
He smiles a slimy grin. “Okay, honey.”
I hand him over my mother’s credit card, the one I have for emergencies . . . sorry, Mom.
I pay the thousand dollars and take the computer and walk out the front door.
My phone rings. Tristan’s name lights up the screen. Perfect timing.
“Hello,” I answer.
“Sorry I took so long to get back to you. That girl’s name is Lara Aspin, and get this—she used to work in accounts,” he blurts out.
“What does that mean?” I frown.
“She had access to the bank account details.”
“Oh my God, Tristan,” I whisper as I look around guiltily. “I just followed her on the train, and she sold her computer to a pawnshop, and I know this is crazy, but I just bought it for a thousand dollars.”
“What? You have it? You actually have her computer?”
I smile proudly. “Uh-huh.”
“Where are you? I’m coming to get you now.”
I walk through the airport with my heart in my throat. I’m pulling my small carry-on suitcase so that I look the part of a tired traveler . . . or perhaps I’m just trying to pretend to myself that this isn’t a bad idea.
Because I know it is; deep in my gut I know that I shouldn’t be playing this dangerous game with him. I should be sitting down and having a civilized grown-up conversation.
But desperation has brought out my weakness, and I’m hoping that tonight Jameson and I can talk . . . and he can apologize and beg for me to come back, and then I can punish him, and we can begin to get back on track.
I haven’t seen Claudia again, so I have no idea what is going on with her, but the fact that Jameson wanted to see me tonight tells me that it’s nothing.
I hope it’s nothing . . . God, I hope it’s nothing . . . stop it.
I duck into the bathroom to give myself one last pep talk. I reapply my red lipstick, Jameson’s personal favorite, and I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My long dark hair is out and wavy. I wanted to wear a dress but didn’t want to seem too eager, so I finally decided to wear black fitted capri pants and a black silk shirt with the top button strategically undone. My black lace bra is just peeking through if I move the right way. I’m wearing his favorite fragrance and think I look sexy without trying to be sexy . . . is that even a thing?
God knows. I guess I’ll soon find out.
Don’t be needy . . . don’t be whiny . . . and don’t be overdramatic, I remind myself. Be sexy and alluring . . . like I was when we first met.
Right, I can do this.
I drop my shoulders, take a deep breath, and steel myself for the night ahead. This is literally a make-or-break situation. I need to remind him why he fell in love with me in the first place . . . how the hell has he forgotten?
That in itself is an issue . . . I close my eyes in disgust. Stop overthinking this.
I walk down the corridor and into the Clubhouse Bar. It’s busy and bustling. I walk in and take a seat in the corner at a bench-seat table for two. If he wants to see me, then he can find me. I’m on a stopover and totally oblivious to anything around me.
I take out my laptop and open my emails.
“Can I get you a drink?” the waiter asks as he approaches my table.
“Yes, please.” I smile as I hand him my credit card. “A top-shelf margarita, please.”
He smiles and, with a cheeky wink, walks away. Damn it, that Jameson Miles has spoiled me. I seem to have an addiction to top-shelf shit, and it just rolls off my tongue a little too easy now.
I turn my attention back to read my emails and pretend that they’re fascinating.
They’re not.
And what I really want to be doing is giving this place the once-over with an eagle eye . . . is he here?
The waiter returns with my drink. “Here you are, a top-shelf margarita.” He places it down onto the table. “And the gentleman at the bar asked that I deliver these to you.” He places a large bowl of strawberries and a dipping bowl of hot chocolate on the table.
My eyes rise to where he gestures, and I see Jameson sitting at the bar. He’s wearing dark denim jeans and a white shirt that I bought him. His dark hair is messed to perfection. Our eyes lock, and he raises his glass and then takes a sip.
My stomach rolls in excitement. He hasn’t looked at me like that in a long time.
“Thank you,” I reply to the waiter, completely distracted by the beautiful specimen at the bar.
I sip my margarita as I try to keep the goofy smile from my face, and I turn back to my emails to act uninterested.
Strawberries with hot chocolate; there’s no way to eat them without slurping them up and looking like an animal.
I smirk . . . maybe that’s what he wants?
Game on.
With my eyes locked onto my computer screen, I pick up a strawberry and dip it into the hot chocolate and lick it and then place it seductively in my mouth. I suck the chocolate and rub it back and forth over my lips.
I take a sip of my margarita and then repeat the move.
I smile to myself . . . what the actual hell am I doing? I’m in an airport bar when I’m not flying anywhere, pretending not to know someone while he watches me go down on a fucking strawberry. This really is beyond bizarre.
If Molly and Aaron could only see me now.
The waiter arrives with another margarita. “Compliments from your friend at the bar.”
“Thank you.” I keep my eyes down as I play the game and refuse to look at him.
Ten minutes later, I take the final sip of my margarita and allow my eyes to drift to the man at the bar; his dark eyes are on me, and heat blazes between us.