I huff out a breath. Look at that, I didn’t have to go looking for trouble. She walked right in and sat down next to me.
I know Nicole likes me. She’s hardly subtle about it. And honestly, I’ve thought about it before.
But then I met Kiki, and I couldn’t think about anyone else.
Maybe I need to reconsider Nicole as a possibility, because right now, anything is better than this.
Look, I’m not trying to sound like a heartless dick, but Nicole’s not looking for anything serious. She’s told me as much on several occasions.
Seems like that’s something we have in common now.
I nod toward the bartender. “Get Nicole whatever she wants. Put it on my tab.”
My phone rings, and I shift to pull it out of my pocket, glancing at the screen.
No one I know. Los Angeles area code. Probably a damn telemarketer.
Not happening. Not tonight.
I let it go to voicemail, but it rings again.
Goddamn it. Persistent asshole. Time to read them the riot act. Release a bit of my pent up anger.
I slide off the stool and nod toward the pool table. “Hey, Nicole, why don’t you rack ‘em up? I’ll be right there.”
She winks and walks away, ensuring I get a full-on booty shot. “Not a problem, handsome.”
I step outside, my breath catching as a blast of arctic air slaps me in the face. A couple of guys linger near the entrance, smoking cigarettes, and I shake my head as I walk past them.
Look, I’m not judging but Jesus, it’s below freezing out here. Is the cigarette really that important?
Then again, my sorry ass is out here, too.
My phone rings again. Same number. Third time is a charm. “This is Eddie Landry.”
“Here I thought you were ignoring my phone calls.”
It’s a deep voice. Smooth. Confident. Definitely doesn’t sound like a telemarketer.
I frown into the receiver. “Sorry, who is this?”
“Nolan Montague. Who else would be calling you from Los Angeles at this hour?”
Everything in me stills.
Nolan Montague. The Hollywood director. The massive mansion restoration I put a bid in on weeks ago. It had been so long since we spoke last that I figured I didn’t get it.
My brain goes into a full-on demolition derby, as dozens of thoughts crash into each other, but all I manage is a casual, “Oh, hey, Mr. Montague. How are you doing?”
“Just Nolan, remember? Mr. Montague was my father, and he was a bastard.”
A short laugh escapes me. “Fair enough. What can I do for you?”
“Sorry for the delay,” he says. “I needed to go through everyone’s plans and see which ones meshed best with my vision for the house, before I made my decision.”
He pauses, stretching the silence long enough to make my jaw tighten, and I’mthisclose to demanding he spit it out when he finally does.
“You’re the perfect man for this job.”
