The Man Who Has No Heart - Victoria Quinn Page 0,50
the day Cleo delivered my dry cleaning and groceries. She would walk inside, and we’d be forced to get past the first awkward conversations.
But the hours passed…and she never came.
The next day, I went back to work, and when I came home, everything was finished.
It made me wonder if she kept her eye on the front door of the lobby, waiting for me to leave the building before she did her errands, to ensure I wasn’t there.
If that were the case…would I ever see her again?
After work, I texted her from my condo. Theresa is about to drop off some paperwork I left at the office. Could you take it from her and deliver it? I stared at the screen, wondering what she would say. It felt strange giving her an order as our first official conversation, but I didn’t know what else to do.
She texted back immediately. You got it.
I continued to stare at the screen, waiting for more dots, waiting for a longer message.
It never came.
An hour later, a knock sounded on the door.
I left the dining table and moved to the front door, my heart racing a little bit, my palms a little sweaty. Normally, our interactions always made my heart steady, always made me feel a sense of peace. But now, I was simply uncomfortable.
I opened the door—and saw Matt.
“Hey, Mr. Hamilton.” He held up the thick envelope stuffed with everything I forgot at the office. “Here you go. Anything else?”
I took the stack of papers without taking my gaze off his face. “Where’s Cleo?”
His professionalism faltered at the question, like he didn’t understand why I’d asked. “She’s with another client right now.”
I’d never asked for anything and got it delivered by someone else—not once in the six months I’d known her. “How is she?”
“Uh, fine.” He raised an eyebrow. “Everything alright, Mr. Hamilton?”
“Yes…I’m fine.”
I texted her on Monday. I forgot my lunch. Could you bring me something?
You got it.
I hoped for more, but it never came.
When noon struck, I knew she’d be there any moment, would step through the doors and bring me what I asked for. Maybe we would talk. Maybe we wouldn’t say a word to each other. But I wanted to see her, regardless of how hostile it was.
The doors opened.
I stilled at my desk, eager to see that brown hair, those blue eyes.
But it was Theresa.
She walked to my desk with the bag and took out all the containers.
“Where’s Cleo?”
She finished removing everything before folding up the bag. “She just dropped this off and said she was in a hurry.” There must have been something wrong with my face because she said. “Everything alright, Dr. Hamilton?”
“Yeah…I’m fine.” That was the response I’d given to everyone lately, but I was starting to realize it was a bald-faced lie. “Fine.”
When I got home, I called her.
It immediately went to voice mail.
I pulled the phone away and stared at the screen, unable to believe I’d just gotten her voice mail. “Hey, this is Cleo. Leave me a message, and I’ll—” I hung up. I didn’t even know what her voice mail sounded like because she always answered on the first ring. I texted her. You’re just never going to speak to me again?
The dots popped up right away. Is there something you need?
No. I just want to talk.
Well, I’m busy with a client right now.
I sighed in annoyance, unable to believe this was happening. Then call me afterward.
The dots were there for a long time, like she was typing up an essay. Your errands have been finished, your bills have been paid, and every request you’ve made has been completed in record time. My professionalism hasn’t changed, Deacon. Now, if you need something, let me know. Otherwise, I’m very busy.
I read the message twice, my fingers gripping the phone so hard I nearly broke it.
We enjoyed the game right behind home plate, using the season tickets from one of Cleo’s other clients.
Tucker had a great time. “I hope a ball comes flying toward us and breaks my arm or something.”
I gave him a raised eyebrow.
“You’re a doctor. You’ll fix me.”
“I’m not an orthopedic surgeon.”
“A what?” He grabbed his beer and took a drink, his focus back on the game.
The woman sitting beside me poked me in the side. “Who are you rooting for?” She was a young brunette, maybe a few years younger than me, and she was with a friend. They didn’t seem to be with anyone else, any dates.