Love Emerged (Love Surfaced #3) Page 3

  “Leaving early?” he asks, finding his spot on the opposite corner of the elevator.

  “I have an appointment. I’ll be working tonight, if you must know.”

  The case of Kuppy’s Ice Cream Shop needs its new ad, and if I want to impress Tim, every waking hour had better be made researching that no one else has the logo I’ve developed.

  “Oh, I wasn’t suggesting.” He holds his palm up, the same one I grinded against—strong and hard—to release the pressure he’d built up inside me.

  “I was just letting you know in case you’re the new narc around here since you seem to be Tim’s golden boy.”

  A light chuckle rises out of him, bringing butterflies to my stomach. It’s the same sound that leaked out of him that night in his car. It’s cute and genuine.

  “He just wants to make sure that I’m not some sort of bust. The company is invested in me.” He straightens his messenger bag around his shoulder.

  “Are you? A bust, I mean. Do you really have the contacts everyone’s gossiping about?”

  That chuckle escapes him again. “I have the connections, yes. I don’t make a habit of lying.”

  His eyes pierce into mine, and I inch backward, my back hitting the wall of the elevator.

  Thankfully, the bell rings, and the doors slide open.

  “That’s two of us.”

  He holds his arm out for me to exit first, and I accept his offer, breezing by him.

  Relief rushes through my limbs as I step out of the confined space. Not about to turn around and say good-bye, I focus my eyes on the revolving door in front of me. I’m halfway to it when a hand wraps around my arm.

  “Bea,” he sighs.

  I’m so not in the mood for any of this today. My mom will be enough to remind me of the person I’m not. The disappointment I am to her, my father, and the world they’ve created.

  I stop, but my eyes cast down to my feet, my red high heels that match my checkered dress and black cardigan. If I’ve learned anything from my mother, it is to fake it until you make it. I might dress better than every other junior account executive, but the more professional you look on the outside, the more people will believe that you hold more power. Another one of my mom’s slogans. Not that she’s really held any jobs. Her version is more about dressing to find a husband.

  “I have to go, Dylan. I’m late.”

  He releases my arm, and I step away.

  “Do you want to grab a drink or dinner sometime this week? You have my number, right?”

  I tilt my head in confusion of why he’s changing course so fast. Just yesterday, he was so adamant about no one knowing anything.

  “As friends?” I question.

  Then, a light bulb flicks on in my head, and I wouldn’t mind a repeat either. In the past few months, Dylan was the one guy who was successful in getting me off.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Yes, strictly as friends.” His black winged shoe clicks a step back.

  I’m guessing I have the whole situation wrong. I’m not worthy of a repeat night of being tangled in the sheets.

  “Sure. Just text me.” I pull my phone out of my purse and see that I’m going to be late if I don’t hail a cab right now. “I really have to go. Bye.” I swivel around and jet toward the circular door, leaving Dylan behind.

  Someone’s looking out for me tonight because a cab is waiting there, and I hop in, asking to be taken to the MGM Grand. William, my mom’s husband, will most likely gamble his billions while she spouts some sort of advice to me.

  I look back at my office building to find Dylan standing outside, staring at me. When he catches me looking back, he quickly pulls out his phone and walks down the sidewalk. The cab pulls off the curb into the light Detroit traffic.

  Ten minutes later, I pay the cab driver and exit in front of the casino. My gut clenches, and bile rises up my throat as I ride the elevator to the penthouse suite. I mentally prepare myself while heading up to the top of the building, repeating that I am secure enough to endure her insults. She is the loser who continues to move from marriage to marriage, her bank account gaining with each divorce. At least I earn my own money.

  The elevator doors open, and I stare at the numbers next to the door. Behind the door is the monstrosity I call my mother. With one heavy breath, I knock and I knock and I knock.

  Nothing.

  “What the fuck?” I whisper to myself, digging into my purse for my phone.

  I’m dialing her number when the door opens, and my mother appears.

  Her usually perfectly styled long blonde hair is stringy, and her eyeliner and mascara have fallen into the crevices of the wrinkles under her eyes. She looks like shit, and I haven’t seen her so disheveled since . . . fuck.

  “He left you,” I state, not question, because it’s evident.

  I break the doorway, and she tumbles into my unwelcoming arms.

  I practically drag her to the couch, and she falls. I spot the healing drugs—or shall I say, her numbing drugs. A bottle of bourbon and a small bag of marijuana lie on the glass table along with a half-eaten sandwich from room service. At least she ate.

  The bottle jiggles in her hand as she pours the amber liquid into her glass. She leans back, tucking her legs under her small-framed body. The silk robe opens, and her tits are about to spill out of her nightgown. While she continues to drink herself to a stupor, I bustle around the suite, placing the room service tray by the door and cleaning up the array of chocolate wrappers.

  Moving toward the bedroom to pick up the piles of clothes haphazardly thrown across the floor, I ask the question I could answer myself, “What happened?” Still in the bedroom, I drop her array of bras, shirts, and pants into her suitcase. I glance into the bathroom and sigh at the clutter of her makeup. There’s only so much I’m going to do.

  “He found someone else.”

  “A newer model,” I murmur to myself. As much as I despise my mom, I’m not going to throw it in her face.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but he left me for his first wife. Can you believe that? What kind of man goes back to the original?” She pulls a joint out of her bag and lights it.

  So that I don’t reek like her, I wave my hand and then open the window, allowing the fresh air to breeze in. “That’s honorable, in a way.” I lean against the windowsill, trying to keep my distance.

  I’m not against pot. I started smoking it at fourteen, even with my mother. At the time, I thought it was a cool thing, that she was cool, but as I grew up, I realized how wrong and sick it was. It showed how little she truly cared for me. Being on the swim team in college got me to kick the habit with the random drug tests, and swimming was the one thing I always felt good about. I never doubted my swimming ability. When college ended and my swimming time was over, that lack of self-confidence started strangling me again.

  “That’s nice, Beatrice. I’m sitting here, wondering how I’ll survive, and you think it’s a good thing that he went back to the OG.”

  “Did you really just say OG?” I wave off that comment, not wanting to hear the answer. “I’m sorry he left you, but did you really think William was your forever?”

  “Beatrice”—she tilts her head in that stop-being-a-dreamy-little-girl way—“there are no forever guys. There is only Mr. Right Now.”

  Even as a little girl, I wasn’t allowed to dream of my prince coming to save me on his white horse. It explains why I had five Kens and only one Barbie. I might not believe in my mom’s thinking of marrying men she doesn’t love for money, but I don’t believe in Prince Charmings either. There will always be another woman on the back burner.

  The ironic thing is, that woman is usually my mother. She appears devastated and distraught right now, but the truth is, she knows who her next conquest is. I’m sure of it. Her heart is never broken when they leave her; her ego is.

  “Where are you going? Stay for dinner.” She moves to stand but falters until she’s sitting on the couch again.
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  “No, I have work to do. You know, I do have responsibilities.” Staying here and watching her drink until she can no longer give me dating advice is not going to happen.

  “Yes, I know, Beatrice. You work and make money. You’re so damn independent. You know, it’s funny. I’m about to be divorced, and I’ll make at least a million, and you, what? Make one hundred grand a year?”

  I wish.

  “I really need to go. You’ll be good?” I ask, checking to see if Helen, her babysitter, is with her.

  Hopefully, William didn’t fire her upon his departure.

  “I wish you’d stay. Helen is downstairs at the pai gow table. She’d love to see you.”

  “I’ll see her next time.”

  She looks down at her lap, her silk nightgown hanging off her body. She’s thinner than she was last time, and I worry that, with the new cleanse or binge she’ll do before putting herself back on the market, she’ll drop even more weight. A long time ago, I found out that I couldn’t control her, so I don’t say anything.

  “I’m sorry about William.”

  She looks up at my concerned and caring voice. “Thank you, sweetie.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll be single like you for a while.”

  She laughs, but it’s hollow, just like her soul.

  “Bye, Mom.” I lean over and lightly place my arms around her shoulders.

  “Bye.”

  Leaving the penthouse, I hit the elevator door. My mom’s on her seventh divorce. Even though I’m far from normal, I wonder how I was able to turn out as well as I did.

  The pinging from the machines in the casino rings in my ears while I weave past the patrons trying to get rich quick. Regret and guilt fill me. I should have stayed for dinner. Usually, I would have, but I couldn’t sit there tonight and hear her go on and on about how heartbroken she is or how I should be following in her footsteps. I’d have sat in the chair, quiet, counting the moments until I’d be released from her prison.

  I need to push my mom’s negative thoughts out of my head before they take over. I guess I’ll be stopping by the gym to swim a few laps tonight.

  Dylan

  I’M THROUGH THE REVOLVING DOOR at work when my phone rings. Figuring it could be the guy from Nike whom I’ve been expecting to hear from for three days, I answer it immediately.

  “Dylan.”

  Ava.

  Like I need her after the shit I heard from Cameron last night. From the gossip of my New York friends, she’s been dramatically playing the brokenhearted girlfriend. Obviously, she forgot to mention that she was the one who wanted a break. I just made it more permanent.

  “I’m at work. I can’t talk.” Instead of the elevator, I wait on the opposite wall to finish the conversation.

  “I was thinking about coming out to Detroit. To talk.”

  “Not a good idea.”

  “Why?” She sounds angry, and surprisingly, it doesn’t gain one reaction from my body. “I want to fix this between us.”

  I let out a long breath and catch Bea walking into the office. She’s in another short skirt and heels. Her short hair is a little frazzled today, like she’s having a bad-hair day, but her lips . . . are still mouthwateringly luscious and pink. My pants snug up on me as I remember them being wrapped around my cock.

  “I have to go, Ava. I’m not sure how much clearer I can make this for you. We’re over and done.”

  “But, Dylan—”

  I hang up the phone, tucking it in my pocket, and steadily walk toward the elevators. Bea slides into one, and I quickly follow before the doors close. It’s full of people, and I’m too new to know if any of them work for Deacon, so I need to keep this professional.

  “Good morning, Bea,” I say, my lips spreading into a smile.

  “Are you stalking me? You seem to always come into the elevator after me.”

  She eyes me with one of those hazel eyes of hers, and I chuckle.

  “I’m usually the one being stalked, so, no, I’m not. I’m just lucky to find you here,” I flirt, my eyes continuing to search out for any familiar faces in the elevator. “Where are your coffees today?”

  “It’s Kevin’s turn to bring them in.” She stares straight ahead, disregarding me for the most part. Her purse hangs from both of her hands in front of her.

  “How do I sign up on that coffee rotation? I’m not sure who makes the one in the break room, but it’s so potent that I think I’ll grow chest hair.”

  Her lips lift, and she checks me out from the corner of her eyes. We both know I have chest hair.

  “Pete in accounting is the first to arrive, and he prepares it. Ask Yasmin. She seems to be a fan of yours.”

  The elevator doors open, and words of, “Excuse me,” fill the small space, separating Bea and me onto opposite sides of the elevator.

  By the time we hit the fifteenth floor, it’s just her and me. How I got this lucky, I have no idea. She’s someone I need to stay away from, but I can’t stop wanting to hear the next thing to come out of her mouth.

  “So, how about dinner tonight?” I ask.

  She looks up at me. “I thought we were forgetting everything. Friends?”

  “We can be friends who have dinner. I’m not asking to sleep with you, if that’s what you think.” Man, that sounded defensive.

  “That’s a shame. I’m game for friends with benefits, if you are.”

  The elevator doors ping open, and she is the first to walk off. Right before we reach our company glass doors, she flips around. “Let me know.” She breezes by Samantha, the receptionist, and heads straight to her desk.

  “Hi, Mr. McCain.” Samantha stands up, and her eyes rack over my body, making me feel objectified.

  “Please, it’s Dylan,” I clarify to her again, my eyes still on Bea’s ass before she disappears around the corner.

  “Well, Dylan, I brought you a coffee.” She sets the cup on the ledge.

  I dig in my pocket, handing her a ten-dollar bill. “Thanks, Samantha.” I grab it with no intention of drinking it. I’m not suggesting that she would drug me, but her eyes slightly creep me out.

  “Oh, you don’t have to pay me.” She fights taking the money, but I push the bill toward her.

  “I insist.”

  She smiles and sits back down at her desk, tucking the bill in her drawer. “So, what are your plans—”

  “Thanks for the coffee. I have a meeting with Tim.” I walk away from her, mid-sentence.

  That was harsh of me, and I should be nicer to her. If I turn on my nice-guy charm, she’d probably not want anything to do with me. Everyone knows the nice guy never wins the girl.

  I take off my coat and hang it on the back of my chair while my laptop boots up. As I sit down, the anxiety from my contacts dragging their feet with responses from my calls and emails rests heavily on my shoulders. I open my drawer to grab a pen, but I find a neon-green Post-it note.

  Seven o’clock. I’ll cook. 524 Maplewood Ln. Apt. 210.

  A smile eases on my lips, and I fold the small piece of paper, tucking it into the pocket of my jacket.

  “Hey you.” Yasmin saunters in with the coffee Kevin must have brought her this morning.

  “Good morning. I really need to inject myself into this coffee rotation you guys have,” I comment, not necessarily to her.

  “You want in? I have connections.” She giggles like a schoolgirl gossiping with her friends.

  “Okay, sign me up.”

  After lunch, my fingers are tired from the personal emails I’ve sent while locked in my chair all morning. In desperate need of something to eat, I walk straight to the break room, needing alone time before going back to my cubicle with Yasmin. Seriously, the girl eats some weird-ass food for lunch.

  I blow out a breath once I reach the break room and notice it’s empty. Two o’clock will do that. At three is when the snacking convenes, so I’m good for a little while.

  Lucky for me, someone brought in some pastries this morning. Usua
lly, stale coffee cake isn’t my thing, but screw it. Skipping lunch to sketch out a few thoughts has granted me with hunger pains. I sit down, and the cinnamon-swirled sweetness is right at my lips when Bea walks in with her coffee cup in hand.

  “Hmm . . . pretty desperate to take a chance on Holly’s latest test, aren’t you?” She heads straight to the coffee pot and opens the top of her disposable coffee cup that has her name scribbled on the side.

  “I could say the same about burned coffee at two o’clock.” I turn in my chair to face her, dropping my piece on the napkin.

  She’s wearing a shorter skirt than yesterday, showing off her stunning legs with a pair of fishnet stockings. I had no idea women still wore those, but on Bea, they aren’t trashy; they’re sexy as hell. With her black high heels and the small slit up the back of her skirt, my hands itch to travel the length of her toned legs. My eyes are so focused on her lower half that I don’t notice when she twists around until she crosses her ankles. With one arm wrapped around her waist—only pushing her tits out of her blouse, giving me a good look of what I had—she perches her coffee in her other hand, taking a sip.

  “You like what you see, McCain?”

  I push up my black-rimmed glasses and concentrate on her eyes. “I’ve always liked what I see when it’s you.”

  “What’s with the glasses? Trying to be more heart-throbbing?”

  I chuckle because the girl never holds back her thoughts. “I ripped a contact this morning, but let’s talk about you thinking I’m heart-throbbing?”

  She saunters closer, and with every step, my pulse jolts up a notch. Without stopping, she bends over the table to grab a piece of Holly’s cinnamon coffee cake, leaving her ass so close to my hand that it twitches to harass it. Just as my hand is a mere inch from her round, hard apple ass, Yasmin comes in, and I drop my hand.

  Thank God for small miracles. I reprimand myself for almost losing control. We need to keep our relationship platonic, especially in the break room of our company.

  “What are you two doing?” Yasmin stops right inside the doorway, staring at both of us.