My phone buzzes and I pull it out, hoping it’s Sullivan asking me to watch Molly later. My stomach drops at the familiar name. I bite my lower lip and hover my thumb over the screen. I should decline it. But he’ll just call back. Like he always does.
“What do you want, Brandon?” I huff, screwing up my face as he says my name, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
“Tate.”
He uses the same drawn-out whine that I remember from the day I walked into his place and caught him balls deep in a stranger. I’d arrived at the pivotal moment, just in time to see him, eyes closed, head tipped in ecstasy, coming inside a woman who wasn’t me. She saw me before he did. We stared at one another as she was thrust forward into the couch I’d sat on with Brandon that morning while he rammed into her from behind and groaned about how good she felt wrapped around his dick.
“Tate,” he whines again, the same way he had after he’d chased me out into the hallway and told me it was nothing and that he loved me.
I snap out of the memory. “I told you to stop calling.”
“Come on, at least hear me out. This is a great opportunity. I can get you a meeting. You know you won’t get it again without my help.”
I suck in a sharp breath, my fingers tightening around the pharmacy bag and magazine as I clutch them to my chest like a shield. “I don’t want your help.”
He blows out a disgruntled-sounding breath. “Don’t be stupid. You don’t mean that.”
There it is. The subtle undertone I missed throughout the nine months we were dating. The one telling me I’m nothingwithout him. That I won’t ever get a record label to give one of my songs the time of day without his help. He always dangled the carrot over me the entire time we were dating. Telling me that his position as a marketing assistant at Liberty Records would mean that I had a chance to get one of my songs heard over the thousands they receive every week.
But never once did he actually try to help me while we were dating. So why should I believe him now that we’ve been over for two months?
“I don’t need your help. And I don’t want it. Why don’t you shove it down the end of your tiny cheating dick?”
I hang up on him with a triumphant swell of my chest. Ashley would be proud. She’s always telling me to speak up more for myself.
I push through the door into Caffeine Couture. Ashley’s still watching the engineer with an unimpressed look. But he’s packed his tools away and is leaning against the counter, giant work boot clad feet crossed at the ankle, as he sips on a cup of coffee.
“You make a great cup,” he comments, running his tongue over his wet lips as he eyes Ashley with amusement. “You know, I’ve got a conference next week.”
“And?” she replies like she doesn’t give a shit.
He runs a hand over his beard, but I still see his smirk.
“And I figure I’ll be taking you out when I get back on Friday. Unless one of those cards you tossed in the drawer when I arrived belonged to your boyfriend?”
She ignores his question and arches a brow. “You figure, huh? Kind of arrogant to assume, don’t you think?”
“Not arrogant to hope, Darlin’.” He winks, then places his cup down and pulls a business card from his cargo pants. “Message me your address if you can squeeze me in.”
“Dream on.” Ashley purses her lips and looks at his outstretched hand.
He chuckles and drops his card into the tip jar. “I’ll pick you up at seven. Looking forward to it already.”
He walks out, whistling. Ashley lifts her chin, watching as he disappears out of sight, before diving for the tip jar and almost knocking it flying as she fishes out his card.
I laugh. “I thought you didn’t like him?”
“I didn’t before,” she says.
“Before what?”
She sighs softly. “Just… before.”
“But you were like the ice queen to the poor guy.”
“He has to work for it, Tate. I can’t have him thinking I was imagining the ways I’d mount his giant bear-like body while he was working.”
“You were?” I splutter in shock.
