Giving him a piece of her mind, however, that was a rocket sticker in her bullet journal.
Why would Halsey want her invitation to a not very prestigious charity event at a thoroughly uninspiring venue? Unless he simply didn’t want her to have it?
When the phone rang she eyed it. She didn’t recognize the number, and it would be just like Halsey to call again from somewhere different since she’d made it impossible for him to email her.
She picked up. “Good morning, Dollars for Daughters. This is Lenny. Unless you’re Halsey Sherwood, I know you’re calling to help someone less fortunate today.
“Hello. Is this Lenore Bradshaw? This is Bernadette Yang, Mallory’s homeroom teacher. Are you aware Mallory was absent from school today?”
Oops. Putting Halsey in his place would have to wait until she could make sure Mallory knew hers was at school.
Half an hour later with a head full of Mallory’s indiscretions and absences, Mom’s flick pass of the issue, and a bottled-up need to shout, Lenny sent an email to the United Heroes League telling them she’d be delighted to attend the gala.
And she dialed her new nemesis’s number.
He answered with a crisp. “Halsey Sherwood.”
“Why’d you do it?”
“I’m sorry?” Caution in his broadcaster quality voice. Not so crisp now.
“That’s the thing. You’re not sorry at all.”
“Lenny?”
Did he sound happy to hear from her? No, surely not. “You stole a letter off my desk. Go on, deny it.”
“I did.”
“Worm out of that one. Pretend you had nothing— Oh.”
“Thick glossy white envelope. Crest of the United Heroes League. Yes, I took it.”
That was unexpected and deadly suspicious he’d admit it. “Why?”
“I’ll tell you if you don’t hang up on me before I get through what I have to say.”
His voice was all heartily amused. It shouldn’t make her feel like smiling. “Like I’d make promises to you,” she scoffed.
“Okay then. I’m hanging up.”
And he did.
The rotten, lying thief, well, not the actual lying part this time, hung up on her.
Damn.
She dialed him back. “I’m listening.”
He grunted. “I doubt that. I’ll get halfway through what I need to say and you’ll”—oh man, she had an itch to complete the sentence for him with an unusually forceful expression and a dial tone—“hang up on me. Meet me. Public place.”
“God, no. Not if I was on fire and you were a hose.”
He hung up.
Shit. That made her laugh aloud. Did it matter? She didn’t need the physical invitation. He stole her mail, and he’d told the truth about it, but she’d never sleep again without knowing why.
She hit redial. “I’ll meet you.”