Has been for half an hour, she says.
I'm not going to say I burn rubber to get out of Manhattan, across the bridge, and to the Slope, but I move as quickly as I can, which is pretty fucking quick, considering most people are home. While there are people heading to Brooklyn for a night out, they are heading to Williamsburg or Bushwick by Uber or cab, and the majority are heading into Manhattan.
My head is full of all the things she might be up to in my home, alone. Or worse, not so alone.
There is a message from Cade on my phone, wanting to talk about the project I need to jump into.
Since I'm almost home, I decide to call him from the basement. Tomorrow, he will be here, but while it doesn't sound important, he has a reason for calling.
There is also a message from Dad, and there is nothing like real life intruding to kill any boners I might half have. Half, because I spent my time actively trying not to get turned on by Lola.
She is inquisitive, smart, and has that right amount of natural spunk I like.
Lola leashes it in, but it is there and?—
Nope. Not fucking going there.
But I'm pleased she didn't invent a fake boyfriend to keep me at arm's length. Not that I did anything with her, I didn't even flirt, really.
Of course, that didn't matter. The fact she clearly finds herself attracted to me matters, and she could have put iron barriers down with a fake boyfriend.
Fuck, she could have used Alex.
After all, she has no idea I'm him.
"What fucking tangled webs," I mutter.
It shouldn't matter if she invents someone or not. The dinner in my office is about the closest we are getting to anything like a date. And I don't want to date her.
Shit, I don't really date. I fuck hot women. I get into hairy situations and scrapes and live to tell the tales about it all.
But dating? Me and some woman spending evenings curled up together?
I try to imagine that, but that is just not me.
And I like it that way.
What I want is to fuck Lola, not date her. Protect her too, obviously. But the dating thing is a step too far for me. I like my freedom.
Besides, let's say if—and that is a big fucking if—I wanted to date her and she wanted to date me too... There is history. My fucking father and his ability to hold Lyndall over my head would end anything before it began.
With a sigh, I call my father back. He will only bitch more later if I don't.
"Just finished work, Dad. Is it important?"
"I'm your father, Enzo. You don't speak to me like that." It almost sounds like the man is hurt. Which he isn't. He is too mean and pigheaded to be hurt. I can see pride or the fact he can't manipulate me the way he wants annoying him, but beyond that? No.
I count to twenty. "What's up?"
"Work on your apologies."
"Sorry," I say, not expanding on which thing I'm saying sorry to. "What's up?"
"Your sister. When is she coming home? She has violin lessons, which I'm doubling up on since she has a chance to get a scholarship to Juilliard."
I almost ask why he changed his mind. Or better yet, if we are hurting for money. But I get why he wants her to nab a scholarship. It looks good. It says she is extra talented, and that makes her appealing to the men he will be interested in having her meet.
Again, I don't think he will marry her off against her will, but he will push her toward the men he handpicks and possible mates.
