As I pull on jeans and an artfully dyed T-shirt, I remind myself Shanice will be back from her vacation soon. Once I’m safely ensconced in the personal shoppers’ department, I’ll hardly ever see Blake.
That’s cold comfort, but it’s all I’ve got.
A text sound pings on my phone Who would be texting me this early on a Sunday? Blake? Sending a message so soon? My heart leaps. Aww, he shouldn’t have.
And he didn’t.
No, it’s Clarita.
I hope you wore protection, chica!
Annoyed, I quickly tap out an answer.
Are you with the NSA? Do you have cameras in my apartment?
If you didn’t wear protection I know a great babysitter. Me. I charge very reasonable rates.
“Ahhhh!” I shriek aloud. The last thing I want to be thinking about right now is little Blake-babies.
They’d be super-cute. I hope they’d have his eyes, because his eyes are gorgeous. And his chin. And–
No!
Another message chirp. Another leap of my heart.
Still not Blake. This time it’s Edna.
What did I tell you about cows?
I scowl at my phone. I’m not dignifying that with an answer. As I’m walking into the kitchen, there’s another chirp. And of course it’s still not Blake.
No, seriously, what did I tell you? I can’t remember. Something to do with milk-shakes?
Chapter Twenty-One
Blake
Screw each other out of our systems? Ha. That’s a laugh. It’s Monday morning, and normally I’d be mentally reviewing every single task in my planner, but my mind is mush. The phone calls, the emails, the meetings…they’re nothing but a chopped-up word salad spinning through my head right now.
For the last twenty-four hours – from the moment I walked away from Winona – I’ve had a massive case of blue balls that I can’t cure with cold showers or a clamped hand on my aching cock. And I miss her. I miss her snark, her sweetness, her laughter, everything about her.
I respected her wishes, though, and forced myself not to call, text or email her all day yesterday.
Right woman, wrong time, keeps singing through my head. Taunting me.
I try to cheer myself up with the fact that the gala was our biggest fundraiser yet, the Popup Palooza is getting massive press, and I’ve maneuvered a meeting with Akiri Yamamoto. He just doesn’t know it yet. He has a noon reservation on the racquetball court, and I bribed his partner to let me have his spot.
I show up fifteen minutes early. I’ve got my favorite racquet – lightweight, custom-designed for my grip size. The room is empty, because I paid to reserve the session beforehand. I didn’t want to risk players who stayed late and made things awkward; everything needs to go smoothly.
I stroll in and wait. And wait. Noon comes, and goes. He’s not coming. This has been yet another futile waste of time trying to get this bastard just to grant me five minutes to make my pitch. I’m about to leave, but then I think of the story that ran yesterday in the trade papers, about Akiri’s latest sold-out collection. He’s refused to give interviews, which just adds to his air of exclusivity and makes them want him even more. He’d be invaluable to our event.
Akiri strolls in twelve minutes after the hour, and I have to bite down my annoyance. That’s his reputation. Spoiled, self-centered diva who gets off on making everyone wait for him.
He frowns when he sees me. “You aren’t the partner I signed up for.”
“Funny how that happened,” I say cheerfully. “But this is great! Now we have time to talk.”
He just scowls and stalks over to the service area, the section between the two lines in the middle of the room. “Exactly what I’m looking for when I’m playing racquetball. Conversation.”
I shrug. “It can wait until after the game.”
Winona’s at work and I’m not there. What is she doing right now?
With a violent effort, I force my attention to him.
His eyes gleam with cold amusement. “So you think that stalking me is the way to get me to sign a contract?”
“I just want the courtesy of a simple yes or no.” There’s a bite to my voice now.
He stands there, racquet resting on his foot, staring at me challengingly.
The silent treatment? Really? Akiri may be a talented designer, but he’s also a spoiled little shit who’s been overindulged by his parents his whole life, and whose success comes as much from a massively expensive marketing campaign as it does from his talent.