Descent (Black Heart Romance)

My fingers fly across the screen so fast I make a few hasty mistakes, but with the help of autocorrect I finally manage to send back, “I crept out of your house for a myriad of reasons, but reluctance to cook wasn’t one of them.”

A few seconds later he returns, “Next time I’ll hire Chef Ryan to make us breakfast so you can stay.”

“You’re not a great listener, are you?” I send back. “Not why I left.” I push send, then realize he has roped me into the wrong conversation. “Also not why I am texting you. You cannot have men infiltrate my home in the dead of night when I’m not home. That is not a thing you’re allowed to do.”

My eyes narrow as I read his response: “It’s cute how you think you can tell me what to do.”

“Only you’re allowed to do that?” I type back.

“Now you’re getting it,” he answers.

Sighing, I get to the point. “Do you have a key to my apartment now?”

“Well, I couldn’t very well wait for you to give me one,” he answers, like that’s a reasonable thing to say.

My eyes widen. “I would never give you one!”

“Exactly.”

I huff with annoyance. “You are an infuriating man.”

“You are a beautiful woman,” he answers immediately. “What should we do tonight? Dinner? Movie? Museum? I bet you love museums.”

“What I love,” I type back, “is not being blackmailed into ‘dates’ by a lunatic.”

“Unfortunately, that I cannot help you with.” A few seconds later he adds, “Tell you what, I’ll make the plans, you just be ready to go at 8 o’clock.”

Narrowing my eyes, I type back, “I did not say I would go out with you tonight.”

Almost instantly, the infuriating words, “I know. I did,” flash across my phone screen. As if that’s not obnoxious enough, he adds, “8 o’clock. Don’t keep me waiting.”

I’ll keep you waiting, all right.

“I realize this word doesn’t mean much to you, but I’m going to try it out anyway: NO.”

“You’re right,” he answers. “It doesn’t mean much to me. I’ll see you at eight.”

The arrogance of this man, honestly. Like I’m going to jump just because he tells me to. I may have agreed to go on one last “date” with him, but I didn’t say I’d do it tonight. It’s too soon. I haven’t even recovered from our last encounter yet.

As if he can hear my thoughts, he sends me another message, thwarting any notion I might have of standing him up again. “And remember, if you think to keep me waiting tonight, I can just let myself in.”

I suck in a breath at the mere thought of him storming uninvited into my home.

Another message appears. “So, by all means, if you’d like help getting dressed…”

My shoulders slump in defeat, but the rest of me isn’t ready to give up yet. I type back a few different responses, each more frustrated than the last, but the one I end up sending is a succinct, “Fine.” I hate seeing the word on the screen. I type one more line that I hate even more, but I remind myself this is the last time.

I only have to make it through one more night with him, then I’m free. Then I’ll never have to see Calvin Cutler ever again.

Chapter Fifteen

Calvin

“You win.”

I smile as I read the message a second time, then I type back, “Good. You know how I like winning.”

I know it’s dickish to rub her defeat in her face. I don’t even mean to be cruel, I just want to see if she’ll keep bantering with me or if she’s truly done. I only let a few seconds pass without a response, then I shoot her one last message to end the conversation myself, just telling her I’ll see her tonight.

I can’t wait.

I don’t tell her that, but I really can’t.

It’s fucking absurd to waste my last promised date with her tonight when I just spent last night with her. Typically, I have better control of my impulses than this, but I can’t stomach the idea of not spending tonight with her.

Then what will you do tomorrow?

Since my date supply is running dangerously low, I have to start setting up plans C through Z. Typically, my battle plans would be laid out long before I would ever need to enact them, but everything about this woman has me going off-plan, to say the very least.

I glance toward my open office door to see if Arson is here yet, then check my watch again because I don’t even see him at reception.

He’s late. He usually is, so I don’t know why I’m surprised. Men in his line of work tend to work on their own time, and they don’t mind letting people wait for them.

Five more minutes pass before Arson darkens my doorway. Jodi, my assistant, accompanies him down the hall. She looks so uncomfortable in his presence—with her hair pulled back in a tight, neat bun, her pencil skirt free of a single wrinkle, her heels without so much as a scuff. Jodi is the meticulous type of person who would spend all day agonizing over a run in her stocking that she hadn’t noticed before she left for work. She’d spend her lunch break running to buy new ones instead of eating, and she still wouldn’t feel settled the rest of the day, imagining anyone who smiled at her might have seen her disgraceful error.