“What’s him?”
“On the phone…the man who called yesterday.”
My breath catches and my heart rockets to my throat. “How can you be sure it’s him?”
“I would recognize that voice anywhere. This time, he gave his name. Mick. Just Mick. He says you know him. Do you?”
I nod, unable to kick my vocal chords into gear.
“Soo?” She draws out the question and gives me a quizzical stare. “Should I put this Mick through?”
No!But what good would that do? He’ll only call again—or show up.
“Geez, Dee, you seem a little weirded out. Who is this guy?”
“An old friend.”
“Old friend, huh?” Lena’s worry seems to be diminished and her interest piqued. “He sounds hot.”
I can just imagine the reaction if Lena knew the hot-sounding guy were none other than former Chicago Bulls’ shooting guard Micah Peters. Who also happens to be the man I once planned to spend my life with—when I was stupid enough to let myself believe fairy tales could happen to someone like me.
“I’ll take his call,” I say because what else can I do? “And if you wouldn’t mind, please close the door.”
“So that’s all I’m gonna get?”
“Yes.”
“That’s seriously evil.” Lena sticks out her studded bottom lip in a pout.
And honestly, I’d like nothing more than to vent—but Lena’s not the appropriate person; and I’m not the venting type. I bottle. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Um-hm,” she says on her way out.
I take one, two, three fortifying breaths until my private line rings. “Deeana Chase,” I answer, putting as much professional distance between us as possible.
“Dee.” His husky baritone carries a note of intimacy that reduces my efforts.
Annoyed, I pick up a foam stress ball and roll it in my palm, repeatedly squeezing and releasing my fingers. “What do you want, Mick?” I ask, skipping the pleasantries. He doesn’t deserve any.
“To continue our conversation.”
“If hurling insults is what you call conversation, then no thanks.”
“Dee…wait. I’m sorry about yesterday.”
His apology is unexpected and stops me from breaking the connection.
“I shouldn’t have come on so strong or grabbed you.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.” But the memory is on me in seconds. Pebbling my skin beneath the layer of navy gabardine and tightening my nipples to painful center points. Appalled by my body’s Pavlovian response, I glance around at the benign surroundings. There’s nothing sexy about brick walls, polished oak furniture, or stacks of law journals. But staring at the spot where Mick pinned me to the wall, and pressed hard against me, makes my sinful thoughts run amok.
“Will you at least grant me one thing?”
“What?” I reply with an embarrassing croak.
“That I was provoked by your cool reaction. I swallowed my pride in coming to you, and you wouldn’t give an inch.”
Nothing could have quelled my lust faster. Wounded pride is all he feels about my leaving? I had thought as much, but hearing him say it is a slap to the face. “That’s your idea of an apology?” I strike out, and risk giving my hurt away.
