Shecalledme, right?
“You know what? Tomorrow works.” The words came out of my mouth. I wasn’t even sure why.
Well, maybe because my balls had started throbbing as I listened to her ramble. She had a soft, pretty voice that went with her soft eyes and her pretty face.
“Oh, okay,” she said. “Yes, I can still make that work, if—”
“Great.”Really didn’t need to make this easy on her, though. We’d already established that her sister was a royal bitch; she wanted my business, she could work for it. “Anytime after three, but before three-eighteen. I’ll text you the address.”
“Okay, but like I said, I have that workshop—”
“Don’t wear red,” I added, just to be an asshole. “Bring six pennies. Make sure you arrive when the time’s on an even number. Do you have a dog?”
“Um, no, but—”
“Good.”
Then I hung up on her.
Chapter Eight
Danica
Ashley Player buzzed me into his building.
He lived in a sleek condo tower in Coal Harbour, just two blocks up from the marina. The glass lobby was modern and sparse with a cozy seating area to one side and a security desk to the other. I made a point of saying “Good afternoon” to the middle-aged gentleman seated at the desk in uniform, and offered him a lemon wedge, which he accepted from the bakery box in my hand.
A lesson I’d learned early in my career: always be nice to the security guy.
When I was in the elevator, I rearranged the five remaining pastries so it was no longer obvious that one was missing.
On the fourteenth floor, I got out and took a deep breath to steady myself before texting my aunt.
Me:Here. Text you when I’m done.
I was doing my very best to treat this like any other client site visit, even though Madeleine had basically advised me—after Ashley had left our office, and even though I’d gotten his number for professional purposes—to just go ahead and fuck him, if that’s what I wanted to do, and to hell with my sister.
While I appreciated the support, that was never gonna work for me.
Then I texted my best friend.
Me:I feel like I’m walking into the belly of the beast. If I don’t text you in an hour, call the cops.
Taylor replied immediately—she was on standby for this day—with a crying-laughing emoji. Then she sent several fire emojis. Which I took to be shorthand for:He’s hot. Send me the play-by-play.
I sent her a heart, then checked the time. Three-eleven. I waited for it to roll over to three-twelve. Then I knocked on Ashley’s door.
Make sure you arrive when the time’s on an even number.Jesus Christ, was he serious?
Was he crazy?
I really didn’t care how hot he was if he turned out to be totally batshit.
What I’d originally interpreted in the near-dark on Saturday night as a possibly nice-but-broken vibe had been reinterpreted—following the late night text flirting and the weird list of demands he’d given me over the phone yesterday—as very possibly cray-cray.
Pennies? Dogs? The color red?
Weirdness all around.
