Across the street, a gift shop aimed at tourists caught my eye. I darted over the road and launched myself through the door. Considering I was already soaked, buying an umbrella or a plastic poncho was probably moot, but I wandered the aisles anyway.
A stack of umbrellas were propped up in a metal stand in the corner. As I sidled through the cramped store, my phone rang. I fished it out of my pocket and held it to my ear while choosing a bright red umbrella with white polka dots.
“This is Aspen.”
“Hello, Aspen,” a gravelly voice said. “This is Joz Raynor.”
My hackles rose.Here we go. Launching straight into excuse city. “Mr. Raynor. You’re alive.” My tone oozed sarcasm, which, as a Brit, he should have appreciated. Or at least picked up on.
“Last I checked.” Was that amusement in his tone?
“Do you often miss meetings on a whim?”
“Something came up.”
Yeah, probably his dick. “It must’ve been important.”
“It was.”
“Well, isn’t that lovely for you? As for me, I’ll haul my ass to the airport and get back on my plane, despite only having landeda few hours ago for a meeting I traveled to London for especially to meet you.”
Breathe.Professionalism, remember?
A low chuckle sounded in my ear. The jerk waslaughing. Okay, that did it. Screw professionalism.
“Believe me, Mr. Raynor, I find nothing about this situation remotely amusing. I am jet lagged, hungry, and soaking wet, so I suggest you go find your entertainment somewhere else because I’m hanging up now.”
“Hold up, Spitfire.”
I almost choked on my own saliva. “Spitfire?”
“Do you often talk in run-on sentences, or is it because you’re hangry?”
A shocked breath fired into my lungs, and it took me several seconds to answer. “That wasn’t a run-on sentence, and you’re a jerk.”
I cut the call, quelling the anxiety circling my stomach.Goddammit, Aspen.I played right into the stereotype of ‘woman = over-emotional’, but in my (probably weak as fuck) defense, Joz Raynor was a jackass.
My phone immediately rang again. I stared at the withheld number, grinding my teeth and wavering between curiosity at why he’d bothered to call back, and the desire to stand my ground and leave him hanging.
Curiosity won out.
“Yes?”
“Do you talk to all your prospective artists like this, or am I the lucky one?”
“My artists, prospective or otherwise, have the common courtesy not to blow me off for their latest fling.”
I was so far over the unprofessional line now, I couldn’t see it with a telescope, but this chump had it coming. I could almost feel my blood temperature rising to boiling point just talking tothe guy. Maybe him bailing was serendipity. I could’ve dodged a bullet laced with poison. I mean, if he was this intractable during our first interaction, I imagined he’d be a constant thorn in my side if he signed to my label.
He chuckled again, except this time it was less restrained. “That’s a hell of an assumption, Spitfire. Got me buried firmly in that rock star box, huh?”
His genial response caused a river of shame to run through me. If the roles were reversed and he’d assumed I’d missed a meeting to scratch an itch, I’d have carved him a new asshole.
I cleared my throat and grimaced my way through an apology. “I’m sorry. But I’m also annoyed. My time is valuable, Mr. Raynor. I flew from New York overnight especially for this meeting. Wouldn’t you feel the same in my shoes?”
“Depends on the shoes.”
Prickles sprang up along the back of my neck. He was being purposely obtuse. “Why are you calling?”
