Chapter 20

MELODY

I'mstiff and in no mood to talk to my driver all the way to my office.

My jaw is locked, andeverything bothers me.

I enter my office, where Mina greets me.

"Your breakfast is here," she says before blowing a strand of hair away from her face.

Her long, curly hair is gathered into a messy bun at the top of her head,some locks swooping down her brow and neck.

The shade of copper––a deep, rich, exuberant color–– fits her well.

I've long debated whether to dye my hair.I'm not sure that color would work for me, but it's worth trying.

Her long lashes move quickly as she runs her eyes over my face.

"What happened?"

That's why I like her.

Every nuance registers with her.

I toss my purse on the desk, shed my blazer, and slide into my chair.

The sweat permeating my skin drives me up the wall, and it's not even warm inside.

Mina wears wool pants and a cashmere top, and she doesn't show a sign of distress. Her makeup is perfect, andher cheeks are not flushed.

Evenmy sleeveless dress is too much.

Tearing my eyes away fromherred lips, I slowly sigh.

The smell of food and coffee tickles my nostrils.

"Am I sweating?" I ask, yanking out a tissue from a box inside a drawer and blotting my brow.

It's soaked.

I toss it in the garbage.

"Uh, yes… What happened?" she asks.

Well, for one, I got a couple of orgasms this weekend but didn't get laid.

The man I was supposed to sleep with didn't get it up.

The man who stepped in said we weren't about sex.

And why?

Because I didn't want to make it about sex.

And where is he now?

My money is on that married woman.

He left the place annoyed.

Of course he was annoyed.

I gave him blue balls, and then I tucked him in under a fuzzy blanket.

He must've been royally pissed.

And then, some random good-looking neighbor swung his dick in his gray sweatpants––I know exactly what that moving bulge was––before inspecting me with eyes that looked like frozen pools of water.

And then…

My landlord showed up to scold me because I'd broken the rules. And as much as he was within his right to do that, the timing was horrible, reminding me that I needed to look for a place to buy.

"I need a new place to live…" I say quietly, perusing the foodin front ofme, my interest dwindling.

I pick up my coffee and take a swig before grabbing my fork and eating my eggs despite having no appetite.

The food is good while I'm not.

She knows me well, so instead of moving away, pretending she has something to do in her office and letting me be, shetakes a seatacross from me and sets her tablet down.

A worried look slides over her face.

"You need to lease a new place?"

"No," I say, chewing on my food. "I need to buy a place."

The more I eat, the more I get into it. I tear a piece of the bread off and pop it into my mouth.

The carbs calm me down.

I wash it down with coffee when she speaks.

"You want me to check some listings?"

"Yes, please. When you have time, I need you to make a list of properties on the Upper East Side. Size doesn't matter. I don't expect to raise a family here, so it can be a nice studio or a two-bedroom apartment—whatever speaks to me."

"Price rage?"

I run a napkin over my lips before leaning back in my seat, pondering.

"Nothing over two million dollars. I don't want to splurge. I might move outin the near future, rent it, or sell it––I don't know. I just need to have a place of my own right now."

She looks at me with a bit of wonder on her face. It's not like me to be impulsive, especially when purchasing something important like a home. Plus, the market is not that great for buyers now.

Generally speaking, these transactions bear some risk.

"It's urgent…" she murmurs.

"Yes. Yes, it is," I say, determination flashingthrough my voice.

She sucks in a short breath and straightens.

"Okay," she says. "Would that be all?" she asks, collecting her tablet as voices ring in the hallway.

"Yes. That's all for now."

"Good."

She rises from her seat.

"The boardroom is ready for your first meeting."

"Perfect. Thank you."

I still have some time to think about the changes that I need to make.

She leaves my office while I pick up a strawberry and munch on it, staring blankly at the view outside.

I remember eating strawberries with him, and I relish that moment but not for long.

Pushing that memory back, I slide my hand into my purse, collect my phone, and scroll mindlessly, occasionally reading the news.

I alsocheckthe messages I sent Thomas and the phone number I saved under ‘The Impossible Man."

I can't call either.

And damn, it feels bad.

I know exactly what would happen if I did.

Thomas wouldn't answer.

He's probably on his way to work and in no mood to talk to me.

Saywhatexactly? What could he say to me? I haven't heard from him since Friday.

We're not exclusive, and that's the other problem.

We're not even officially together, and that's the bigger problem.

And then Jax… Oh, Jax.

Regardless of what he said to me and how much gravity he put into his words, our exchange was somelate nightrambling.

I'm not his woman, and he won't be teaching me anything anytime soon.

If I call him, it would reek of desperation.

It would be so awkward that I'd want to go back in time and never make that call.

He wouldn't answer, most likely. Perhaps he's busy with his work, sleeping in, or fucking someone else.

He said he'd be watching me.

Yeah, right.

Like I have time to believehim.

Nothing is real anymore.

And I don't have time for this.

Life is too short for uncertainty.

I need to find a man and be over with it. Or just give up on the idea.

It won't be the end of the world.

Finally feeling in control, I take another sip of coffee and push out of my seat.

The sweat is gone, and I'm more comfortable when I shrug my blazer on. I walk to the bathroom to refresh my makeup and return when my phone rings.

My heels click clack impatiently as I veer toward my desk. I pick up my phone and stare at an unknown number.

It must be a client.

"Melody Hill speaking. Who is this?"

A bit of static comes my way, as if the phones struggle to connect.

"Um, hello…?" I murmur.

The answer comes right away.

"Hello. Bonjour. C'est moi, Emile. How are you?"

Uh…

"Emile?"

Emile, the French painter?

I thought I'd never hear from him again.

"Yes, dear. I'm sorry to call you so early. I didn't wake you, did I?"hesays with a charming accent.

"No. Of course you didn't. I'm at work," I puthimon notice while crossing an arm over my chest and propping my derriere against my desk. "Is everything all right?"

He laughs at the other end of the line while I try to be patient.

"Qui,qui. Everything is fine. I'm at the airport."

My ears perk up.

"Where exactly?"

"Paris. I'm flying to London in an hour, where I'll be spending a day or two. And then I'm flying to New York. Are you free this weekend? Or Thursday, perhaps? When I arrive? We can attend an art exhibition, and have drinks and dinner at my hotel. What say you?"

Well, color me unimpressed. I've never seen such a sudden reversal of direction since I watched gymnastics at the Olympics.

So, the other person didn't work out. Maybe he's giving someone else a try in London, and then he's headed here with business and plans to bed me.

Isn't that nice?

He, for sure, isn't my high-value man or my high-quality man, but I'm in a vengeful mood, and my weekend is open.

Although my Thursday is off-limits.

I already envision myself tucked in a chair across from Dr. Stenson, and if things fuck with me like that, I might need a third session this week.

Still.

I won't sleep with Emile.

I need so much more for that to happen than drinks and dinner at his hotel.I doubt dinnerwill happen at his hotel.

"I have plans for Thursday, but maybe Friday? Call me when you get here."

"Oh. Superb. We'll do that," he says, overexcited, and I'm sure he'd wag his tail if he had one.

We end the conversation, and I'm all sweaty again, but I no longer care.

I'm back to playing this dirty game. And I need to keep doing it until I find my exit.