Simple.
Now my coworkers are angling for a happy hour, paid for with David’s expense account even though it’s only Wednesday. It doesn’t help that even David thinks the marketing department should have a drink or two after work. He says I should come. But why? I’ve never had to attend one of those before.
The worst is that I can’t even escape his attention. I’m going to be back at his place tonight.
You should’ve been more careful not to speak up like that. You were doing so well, keeping your head down and working hard without getting noticed too much.
Groaning, I say okay to David’s suggestion for a departmental drink because I can’t come up with a good excuse to beg off.
“Don’t forget to set up your new phone,” he adds, his eyes going to the box that contains my replacement unit.
I force a smile. “Yeah, sure.”
I rip into the box, venting my frustration on the helpless packaging. The new phone is so shiny and sleek. Weird how that is; it’s the same model as the one that got smashed.
Must be the lack of scratches, I think, feeling a little better. Then I realize I have no clue how to set it up so it has my number and everything. I should’ve mentioned something when I ordered it, but it slipped my mind. I huff out an annoyed breath. I’ll have to go into a store to get that done.
I grab my purse and leave. Then I recite the mantra I’ve lived by since my mom’s death: Be a clam. A silent, mysterious, impossible-to-get-to-know clam that never opens its mouth.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Erin
On the off-chance that there are still some annoying reporters hanging around, I take the garage exit to reach the cell phone store a block away. It’s virtually empty, just a few clerks chatting. They straighten up and say hello.
I approach one and ask her to set my phone up with the number I had before, then fill out my information so she can verify that I’m not some phone number thief. Then, while she’s configuring my new device, I look around the store, slightly bored.
A few minutes later, the clerk says, “It’s ready.” I start to turn toward her, then freeze as a fashionably dressed redhead walks by outside the window, holding a small girl’s hand.
The hawkish nose and thin lips… Those hooded eyes.
Katrina?
I blink. It’s her. Has to be. My heart rate jumps, and I crane my neck to see better. She laughs at something the little girl says, and they look at each other warmly.
I start to go out of the store, then stop. Part of me is tempted to run after her…and ask what she’s doing here. She’s part of my past that I wanted to leave behind in Saintsville, not confront again in L.A.
But a well-dressed man opens the door to a black Escalade, and she and the girl slip into the vehicle. The man goes around to the driver’s seat, and they’re off.
I stand there frozen, watching them vanish through the store window. Katrina and I don’t have anything nice to say to each other. And why do I care that she’s in L.A.? It isn’t like we’re going to have tea and catch up.
The last time she spoke to me was when she wanted a favor to help her family business. I told her I couldn’t help. She got really mad and said terrible things. The wound still hurts.
“You think you’re so special because of your daddy, but think again, Erin! The second you start acting like your mom, nobody’s going to care about you, not even your own father!”
I shiver, then shake myself to throw the memory back where it belongs—in the past. But there’s a mean, petty part of me that’s bitter; she seems so happy with a husband and a child.
It might not even have been Katrina. Just somebody who looks like her.
Still… That doesn’t lessen the pain in my chest.
“Ms. Clare?” the clerk says.
Forcing a smile, I turn and take the phone. The call log is flooded with my dad’s number—I don’t need to have the contacts restored to recognize it. He also texted half a dozen times.
–Unknown: What are you doing???
–Unknown: You know he’s just playing with you.