The Truth

Chapter 8

Tiffany

I am not a patient woman. Restrained? Nope, not really that either. Sure, I’ve gotten more mature as I’ve . . . matured, but playing the long game is not my strong suit. I want what I want, and I want it now. Still, my intuition tells me that going too hard, too soon will send Daniel running for the hills. Possibly literally. And after yesterday’s run through the park, I need a day of recovery, and maybe an Epsom salt soak. My left calf is aching enough that I decided to skip the ultra-sexy heels that I originally planned for today, going with some more conservative nude three-inchers that take a little bit of pressure off my left leg.

So as much as I’d like to make up an excuse to do a loop around the executive floor, I refrain. Luckily, like most Mondays, and Tuesdays through Fridays too, I’m busy as a beaver trying to build a dam during a hurricane, so I don’t have a chance to go upstairs even if I wanted to.

I don’t get a chance to do much more than catch a glance of Daniel as he comes in from lunch, and even then, it’s only of his back as Ricky and Billy laugh it up with him about something I don’t hear.

I’m curious about Daniel’s unusual change in routine, and what they were laughing at, and by the time I’m home, snuggled into my couch in comfy loungewear and sipping a cup of tea, all I can think about is what Daniel is doing.

Is he still at work?

His car was in the lot when I left, but surely, he’s home by now. Probably sitting on his leather couch, looking at work documents, and sipping a bourbon while he eats a pre-packaged dinner.

I mean, he said that he gets a meal service, and he’s uber healthy, so it’s likely better than the delivery of fried mushrooms I ordered.

Unless he went out? Ugly images assail me—Daniel sitting at a fancy restaurant, sipping champagne with an elegant, classy woman . . . Daniel opening his car door for her, his front door, his bedroom door . . . Daniel looming over her, his broad chest flexed as he holds his upper body up as something else presses into her.

Okay, so that one isn’t ugly.

It’s sexy as hell, but only if it’s me he’s leaned over and my nails scoring the skin of his chest as he pins me to the bed with a dark, heated stare that promises pleasure I’ve only dreamed of. I lose myself in that fantasy, heat flushing through my body.

I’m so caught up that the ringing of my phone makes me jump, spilling tea all over my favorite cozy blanket.

“Oh, shit!” I exclaim, trying unsuccessfully to keep the tea from getting on the rug. It’s just tea, but still, those tannins can leave a mark. And while my blanket is washable, the rug not so much. I drop the mug to a coaster on the coffee table, grabbing for my phone.

An errant thought that maybe it’s Daniel calling washes through my mind like a secret whisper, but it’s enough to make my heart race with hope. The wish comes true . . . almost.

It’s not Daniel, but it is a Stryker. Or she used to be.

“Hey, Elle,” I answer.

“Tiffany Young! I have a bone to pick with you!” Elle declares in a tone that she’s definitely picked up since getting married. Maybe it’s in her tea?

“Huh?”

“You have a certified emergency over the weekend, and you didn’t even send me a text as proof of life!” Elle is gearing up for a good old-fashioned lecture, but I sigh in relief because that’s an acceptable reason to bitch me out. “I had to hear from my dad that you were safe, that you weren’t lying in a puddle of your own puke in some bar bathroom, or worse, tied up in some psycho’s basement. And even worse, you totally ignored me all day yesterday and today!”

Ah, hell. I deserve it, but the truth is I didn’t exactly know how to talk to Elle about all of this and avoiding it seemed easier. She’s known about my crush on Daniel for years and even told me to go for it in a roundabout way when she moved to London. But a vague, nebulous ‘sure, go for it’ with an eyeroll of disbelief is a very different thing from the reality of this weekend and my future plans. This is weird now and might test me and Elle in a new way.

“Yeah, about that . . .” I start, taking a deep breath. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Elle’s voice immediately softens, her anger mostly a cover for worry. “What?”

“About Daniel,” I start, getting up to grab a dish towel to keep myself distracted. “And me.”