VERSUS (Second Chances 2)

“Brunch with Mrs. Jenkinson.” He scribbles his hand in the air. “She’s ready to sign on the dotted line with a retainer check in hand.”

I remember now.

I did set that up. I’ll do business every day of the week, any hour of the day.

Boundaries don’t fit into my business model. Extra hourly fees for weekend meetings do.

“I don’t need you to hold my hand through this.” I shoot Gunner a look. “I can handle it.”

“She requested that I be there.”

I swear to God he blushes at that admission.

Martha Jenkinson is more than double his age, but if she floats his boat and they play safe, who am I to judge?

“I’ll handle the paperwork. You’ll take over after that.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed, taking care to keep my dick covered. “I’ll meet you downstairs in twenty minutes.”

His gaze drops to his watch. “Eighteen would be optimum. Mrs. Jenkinson requested brunch at Axel Tribeca at eleven. It’s the restaurant inside the Bishop Hotel.”

Eleven?

I point at his watch. “What the hell time is it?”

“Ten-fifteen on the dot,” he says proudly. “We’ll make it with time to spare.”

I shake my head. “I can’t remember the last time I slept this late.”

“It does a body good.” Gunner offers words of wisdom that I’m guessing he lifted from a billboard in Times Square or an ad he saw online. “It’s nice to see you enjoying life outside the office.”

I’d enjoy it more if I knew when Eden left and why she took off without her clothes.

***

Exiting Axel Tribeca, I pull my phone out of the pocket of my suit jacket.

I silenced it before the meeting with Martha Jenkinson.

My clients pay me enough to guarantee they have my undivided attention when I’m sitting in front of them or chatting with them on the phone.

Gunner is the go-to if a problem crops up during my one-on-one client time. His gaze drifted to the screen of his phone only once during brunch. He didn’t make eye contact with me after he read the text message that popped up, so it wasn’t vital.

I scroll through the log of missed calls and text messages.

There’s nothing from Eden.

It’s closing in on one p.m. now. I can swing by the dry cleaners, pick up her pressed skirt and shirt, and put them back in her hands.

I type out a quick text to her.

Dylan: Thanks for taking the time to say goodbye this morning.

Her reply is quick.

Eden: Do I detect a hint of sarcasm? Does someone feel used?

The sad face emoji she tacks onto the end of the message draws a laugh from me.

I catch the eye of a woman standing a couple of feet away from me.