Bad Boy Rich

“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, the baby 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 was laid back. Nothing like the Hollywood Divas that seem to be around every corner here. It’s why Logan’s comment surprised me and then—my thoughts lead back to Wesley.

I read the text again quickly. He needed 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 made it clear he wasn’t interested in sex with me.

And I wasn’t interested in sex with him.

My internal voices scream at this conversation. 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 these things with his eyes mean nothing. Nothing.

Milana, answer me please.

Emerson is listing items that she needed 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.

I’ll be at your place eight on the dot.

My eyes widen in panic. He can’t just come to my house. How would he even know where I lived? 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.

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 back home.

It’s warm again this afternoon; my skin getting used to the California sun. Inside the car, I blast the AC 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 sun glaring in our direction. It takes me another hour to get home which should have been a twenty-minute drive. By the time I get into my apartment, I manage to crash onto my bed with exhaustion.

I wake up with the sun barely visible 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.

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. 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 half way through my text, he sends another text.

Fifteen minutes.

I give up texting, rushing to the bathroom and turning the shower on cold to cool my body. My hair is tied up 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; reaching the small of my back. I’ve always worn it long, habit I guess from when I was a kid.

Flynn had left a note on the coffee table, informing me he had 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 is 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.

I didn’t do bikes. Correction: I doubled on a scooter once in college and never again. This was a death trap on wheels. What if I fell off? What if he fell off and I went with him?