Wesley: I need to see you.
“Milana? Milana, are you okay?” Emerson leans in, breaking my trance.
“Boyfriend,” Logan mutters.
“Oh, right. I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”
“It’s complicated,” Logan fills her in.
Emerson crosses her arms in a huff. “Logan, can you let her answer? Maybe you need to leave. Girl talk.”
He mumbles something beneath his breath while standing up and cradling the baby in his hands. There’s a patch of grass near the patio with a small swing set. Moments later, Lola is giggling in the baby swing as he pushes her gently.
“Okay, that man can be a painful ass sometimes. I’m sorry about him. You look upset?”
“No, I’m fine,” I reassure her, not wanting this to get in the way of work. “How about we finish reading over the contracts? I’d like to head home soon and work on your itinerary for your trip to Phoenix.”
She rolls her eyes, sweeping her hair into her hands and tying it up into a messy side bun. Emerson is very laid back. Nothing like the Hollywood Divas who seem to be around every corner. It’s why Logan’s comment surprises me, and then, my thoughts lead back to Wesley.
I read the text again quickly. He needs to see me, but why? A man sends you a text like this, and there’s usually a sexual connection of some sort. Wesley’s actions make it clear he isn’t interested in sex with me.
And I’m not interested in sex with him. My internal voices scream at this thought.
Sex with Wesley shouldn’t even be a topic worth thinking about. Just because he’s hot in that bad-boy type of way and does those things with his eyes means nothing. Nothing.
Wesley: Milana, answer me, please.
Emerson is listing items she needs me to find before her trip. I jot them down quickly, ignoring his persistent texts until my cell beeps again, and the temptation is too great that my eyes glance sideways and see his words sit on the screen.
Wesley: I’ll be at your place at eight on the dot.
My eyes widen in panic, he can’t just come to my house. How does he even know where I live? This is textbook stalker behavior. Phoebe warned me about this during one of her many lectures before I left and—I had been through this before. The memories—though distant—come flooding back in a whirl of emotions.
Me: You’ll do no such thing! What do you possibly need that is so urgent?
Fifteen minutes pass with no response. I suspect that my forwardness shut him up for good. I place this nonsense aside and finish working on some things with Emerson. As the afternoon creeps in, I say goodbye to Emerson and Logan, hoping for a smooth ride home.
It’s warm again this afternoon, my skin getting used to the California sun. Inside the car, I blast the air conditioner and crank some radio station playing a ‘90s remix. My wish for a smooth ride home vanishes as soon as I hit the 405. It’s standstill traffic, a sea of red lights, and the is sun glaring in my direction. It takes me another hour to get home, which should have been a twenty-minute drive. By the time I arrive at my apartment, I manage to crash on my bed with exhaustion.
I wake up with the sun setting and the sounds to some ghetto beat out on the street. Rubbing my eyes and propping myself up against my headboard, I fumble for my cell beside me to see the time.
Seven forty-five.
And a text from Wesley.
Wesley: You.
My skin begins to swelter in the confinement of my room. I rip my shirt off, taking deep breaths to ease this feeling of I don’t know what. Nerves and fluttering? Like something is loose in my stomach and running wild.
The tips of my fingers type on their own accord, communicating what my mind thinks, but my body argues. But halfway through my text, he sends another text.
Wesley: Fifteen minutes.
I give up texting, rush to the bathroom and turn the shower on cold to cool my body. My hair is tied into a bun to avoid the soak, and moments later, I’m dressed in a pair of tight black jeans and emerald green blouse. I take my hair out, brushing it and letting it sit against my back. It’s grown so much, now reaching the small of my back. I’ve always worn it long, a habit I guess from when I was a kid.
Flynn has left a note on the coffee table informing me he has another gig tonight. I quickly grab my purse and head outside, deadlocking the door before running downstairs and almost tripping on Joe from apartment one who’s passed out with a bottle of bourbon.
A loud roar rips through the street, catching the attention of my neighbors. People stare, some with curiosity and some with fear. The orange and black motorbike is pulled up at the curb with Wesley sitting on it. He puts his foot on the gas, revving his exhaust, causing more attention.