But that was supposed to change today.
With Nate’s and my scheduled fake date here, I was ready to spoil my taste buds without sparing a dime. So far, that’s yet to happen, all because my date isn’t in sight.
I look down at my phone, praying for a miracle—hoping for a missed call—only to see my screen saver, which happens to be my calendar.
My very packed calendar.
I call again—tenth time’s a charm—but like the last one, I’m sent straight to voicemail.
My teeth clench together, and my free hand curls into a tight fist as anger spreads through me.
No one could ever convince me that they were too busy to answer their phone. They’re hauled around like a lifeline, and with all the vibrations and noises they make, it’s a hard thing to miss.
The downright nasty thoughts circling my head about him are amplified when a text comes through—not from him, but from Melanie.
I reached out to her on my fifth attempt, partly out of desperation but also out of spite. Nate’s cousin is one vicious thing, and I hoped this would piss her off enough to give him a fat piece of her mind.
Melanie:He isn’t picking up my calls either, but he’s at The Forge. Don’t ask me how I know.
My brows furrow at that declaration.
Now that she’s pointed it out, I’ve never been more inclined to find out.
Also, what the fuck is The Forge—an underground dungeon? Some strip club? I don’t question it too much as I pull up its location and start walking.
Melanie:Hopefully, this doesn’t get out. Missing a wedding cake tasting would look horrible in the media.
A few seconds later, she follows up on her last text.
Melanie:Don’t worry about Nate, though. I have thousands of tricks up my sleeve. Torture. High-precision water guns. Force sharing his location with you. Mark my words, this will never happen again.
A wicked smile crosses my face—he’ll definitely be feeling the short end of her wrath the next time he sees her. And most importantly, he’ll be getting mine when I get my grabby hands on him.
In no time, I’m bashing through the double glass doors of the nondescript brick building, physically recoiling when the smell hits me.
Sweat. Sodium chloride. Testosterone. It’s a foul combination—one that rivals the amines that stink up the lab. And from the looks of it, The Forge is an ultra-modern boxing gym.
Industrial ceilings expose steel beams, ventilation ducts, and pipes. The once-warm brick is now coated in gray paint. Concrete floors stretch beneath a large black-and-white boxing ring anchoring the middle of the room, while punching bags, row machines, and extensive free weights line the sides.
I scoff in disbelief.
This man did not stand me up to spend time at the gym.
“Is there anything I can help you with, Miss? Our doors are closed for the day.”
My head snaps to the side to see the spitting image of a blond-haired, blue-eyed Ralph Lauren model sitting behind the receptionist’s desk.
Griffin,as indicated by his name tag, seems like a nice enough guy and undeserving of my sass. So I hold back fromasking the obvious regarding his so-called closed doors. I’ll save my remarks for the root of my bad mood.
“I’m looking for Nate Archer. Is he here by any chance?” I make sure to ask sweetly.
The man tilts his head in question before his eyes trail up and down my form. They linger on my face for a moment before his puzzled expression shifts to an amused smile.
“Past the boxing ring, and into the changing rooms.” Griffin gestures with two fingers.
“Oh.” Disappointment fills me. “I’ll wait here, then. Thanks for the help.”
I’m about to walk to the nearest corner and stew in my anger like Margaret’s famous five-hour soup when he speaks again.
