Byron frowns at Simpson, then looks at the pile of clothes. “Maybe we didn’t know him at all.” He eyes me before heading to his locker.
I hold my tongue, scoop up the laundry, and intend to deal with the root of the problem. “See you tomorrow,” I shoot over my shoulder.
I storm out to my car, rev the motor of my McLaren, and flatten the pedal for a few seconds. The sound calms me momentarily. This wasn’t a laundry issue. If she wants to play dirty, then I’m all in. The farther I drive, the more my thoughts align.
Address the problem.
Me.
I’ve never seen Charlotte’s new home, but I’m about to, and not under the circumstances I had hoped. The day I arrived in LA, Jobe sent me a text with her details attached.
When the right moment arises, you might need her address to say sorry.
The pathetic part of me thought she would give it willingly when we had worked everything out.
“Siri, find Lottie Hendrick’s address.”
I plug Bel Air into maps.
When I arrive, as expected, the long driveway is gated with security cameras. I don’t say anything. Instead, I grab the top pink shirt with the hippy-ish tied dye effect and hold it up at the camera.Nothing. I know she has been alerted that someone’s at her property.
“Charlotte,” I yell, and the huge iron gates begin to open. “Fucking finally,” I grumble as I speed up her paved driveway, passing palm trees until I get to a perfectly manicured garden in front of a modern architectural house constructed of concrete and wood. Through the expansiveglass, a massive crystal chandelier momentarily distracts me.
Getting out of my car, I grab the pile of washing and storm past the security at her door. “Where is she?” I demand.
The sasquatch folds his arms. “Best you change your attitude before entering Ms. Hendricks’ home.”
I glare at him, daring him to say more. “Noted.”
The huge double doors open slowly, only to be greeted by another security guard, dwarfed by the high ceilings.
“Ms. Hendricks is waiting in her office.”
“Which is?” I snap.
He slowly nods as though testing my relevance.No, I haven’t been here before, fucker, but you’re about to see a whole lot more of me.
He jabs a thumb. “To the left.”
I’m acutely aware of the substantial space surrounding the foyer that leads to Charlotte’s office, but I only see the doors before me because hell is on the other side. I touch the door handle tentatively, as though a fire burns behind it, and the moment it opens, I’ll be engulfed by the blaze. Ignoring the fight or flight, causing my heart to thump hard in my chest, there is no turning back.
I push it open, ready for the fight.
The moment I see her, I lose my train of thought. She is standing by the window, still in her navy designer suit from the day. Her long blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail, falling straight, following the line of her spine. She is more beautiful than I remember—the wanting never faded—still, she doesn’t turn to acknowledge me. Her arms remain folded as she stares beyond the glass.
For too long, I have been fucking invisible. “Hello, Charlotte.”
“How did you get my address?” she asks without looking at me.
“Jobe.”
“Of course, it was fucking Jobe,” she mutters. “Well, I have nothing to say, so just leave.”
It’s all it takes for me to see red. “I have a whole lot to say, so let’s do this.”
She spins, her eyes shooting lasers at me. “Do what?”
I dump the pile of clothes on her desk. “For one, explain the need to ruin my clothes? If you don’t want flowers, just say it.”
