Chapter 19

Nolan

I let outa sigh of frustration as I hung up the phone. Apparently, the files I'd sent electronically had gotten all fucked up, and I needed to re-evaluate the claim with brand new photos, a brand new report... and video of the location and business.

Fuck me.

Just as I contemplated crumbling into a million pieces, Karla's voice cut through my disdain.

"Guess you heard from Regional?" she asked, crossing her arms.

"Yeah," I mumbled.

"You're not the only one. Lex and Stacey also have to go back out and do re-evals. Seems whatever was going on with our computers, you all had some serious damage to your files. I asked the techs about it and they said with the new upgrades it likely won't happen again, and it was a fluke."

Yeah, a fluke that just had to happen on the worst day of my life.

"I literally just got here..."

Karla softened her gaze. "You okay? You seem... grouchy. More so than usual," she pried, no doubt looking for gossip, and a part of me wanted to talk. But another knew whatever I had to process or say would be better left in my own mind than to be aired out for Jasper Springs's Blair Waldorf.

"I'm fine, just... I need to get caught up here. You know, get back to work..."

Karla's gaze steadied as she squinted, sizing me up.

If she could tell I was lying, she didn't show it. Instead, she nodded and said, "Okay, Nolan. But I'm watching you." She pointed between us sarcastically.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," I said as my email started to sound, the whistle of work calling me. I stared at my inbox, a part of me hoping to see an email from Dawson. He loved to blow up my inbox with insults and nitpicks about the claims of his I'd checked.

But my shoulders sunk when I saw nothing. Nothing from anyone other than Karla and Regional, anyway.

Certainly not anything from Dawson Richards.

I let out a breath, leaning back in my chair. I wanted to reach out, apologize for what an ass I'd been... but I also didn't want to appear overbearing, or cliché.

I've never done this before, or I don't usually act like this is definitely cliché. Worse, it's juvenile. I'm a twenty-eight year old adult. I've certainly done this before.

Enough to know that it was probably better I leave Dawson alone for a day or two, let things smooth over, let him have time to forget what happened. Forget me.

And maybe I should forget him too. Be happy we'd had a decent time before I blew everything to smithereens.

I took another long pull of my iced coffee, checking the clock on my computer screen. Four more hours left in this day, surely I could manage that.