Ding dong.
My panicked eyes dart to the door of my dressing room. “Shit.” Looking down at my Breitling, I note it’s only six fifty. She’s early. I grab the nearest T-shirt, a grey Vivienne Westwood, and pull it on as I hurry to the door, and when I make it there, I look down and realize I don’t have shoes on. Or socks. Fuck, I’m nervous.
Sort your shit out, Christianson.
I pull in air, straighten my shoulders, and open the door. “Sal,” I splutter, coming face to face with the result of my right hook.
“You broke my nose, you bastard,” he grumbles grumpily, pushing his way past me into my apartment. “Guess I deserved it.”
I watch him move farther into my home, panic beginning to take hold. I quickly have a scan of the corridor and shut the door. “You didn’t deserve it. I shouldn’t have hit you, mate. I’m sorry.”
“No, no. I was out of line.” He turns and holds his arms out to me. “Friends?”
“You gonna stop taking your personal shit out on me?”
“Yeah, guess so.” He looks a little solemn.
“Good.” I give him a quick hug. Now he can go.
“Got any beer?” he asks.
Fuck. And here is the dilemma. Men do not talk about their problems. But Sal and I have been friends for a long time, and I know he’s having a bad run with Moya. So . . . I should be asking if this means things haven’t improved for him with her. I should be asking him why the presentation fell apart simply because I ran out. But I don’t have time to be a concerned friend right now. I need to get him out of here before his PA turns up and the shit really does hit the fan.
Sal releases me and meanders into my kitchen, and I look at the door nervously. Christ, I need to call Lainey. I can’t call Lainey. I don’t have her fucking number. Why the fuck didn’t I take that when I hacked Gina’s computer for her address? “Shitting hell.” I pace after my partner, conjuring up my excuses. I have a date. That’s not unusual.
“Hmm, something smells good.” Sal opens the oven. “Hey, that’s your mother’s famous stroganoff.”
Bollocks. “Um, yeah.” Think of something!
“What’s it doing in your oven?” he asks, turning around and giving me questioning eyes.
I’m stumped. Or fucked. Whichever. “Mum dropped it off for me.”
“You’re not out tonight?”
“No.”
“Great. Get the beers. Looks like there’s plenty for me, too.” He shrugs his jacket off and throws it on the back of the chair. “Oh, look. You laid the table, too.”
I wait for him to pull up and question why the table would be laid for two when it’s just me, but he doesn’t. He just sits right on down and gets comfy. I guess the thought of Ty Christianson cooking a meal for a woman is simply so far-fetched, it hasn’t even entered his head. “Serve up, then.”
This is fucking awful. I glance at my watch, seeing it’s now seven on the dot. She’ll be here any moment. “I need the toilet,” I say, backing out of the kitchen. “Help yourself to the beer in the fridge.” As soon as I’m out of sight, I fly to the front door and swing it open, looking down the corridor. No sight nor sound of Lainey. “Damn it.” Taking the phone on the wall, I call down to the foyer. “Herb,” I whisper. “Any beautiful blondes passed through the foyer recently?”
Herbie laughs loudly. “No, Mr. Christianson. Not this evening. You having a dry spell?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m expecting a guest. Her name’s Lainey. Tell her Sal paid an unexpected visit, and I’ll call her when I’ve gotten rid of him. Take her number. You got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Great. Thanks, Herb.” I place the phone back in the cradle and rush back to the kitchen. I find Sal with a glass of wine in his hand, the bottle open on the table. “Good stuff, man.” He toasts the air and takes a huge gulp.
I want to kill him. Of course it’s good. It cost me fifty-fucking-quid. I stomp to the fridge and grab a beer. “Isn’t Moya expecting you home?” I ask as subtly as I can.
“I have an hour before she and Mia are due home from a supper date.”
I growl to myself. “Great.”
“Come on, then. I’m starving.” He picks up his fork and bangs it on the table like a caveman. “It’ll be nice to eat in peace for once.”Peace? The chance would be a fine thing. An hour later, Sal has monstered his way through the stroganoff, eaten half the apple pie, polished off the bottle of wine, harped on and on about the failed Adidas presentation and his “miserable” life. And I’m a grumpy fucker.
“Well, suppose I’d better get going.” He stretches back in his chair, rubbing his full belly. “Sorry if I’ve eaten your rations for the rest of the week.”