“I just have to ask—is everything okay with you two?” Margot says as her brows furrow and her lips form into a pout. I blow out a breath and push away the awful, rotted salad and decide to end this once and for all.
“I don’t know what we are to each other, nor do I know what he’s doing. He’s insane. I can’t even tell you what that little stunt was. We had a very brief encounter, and I haven’t been with him since,” I say. I don’t count him knocking on my apartment door and me not answering us being together. Nor do I count me trying to avoid him in a parking lot us being together. And I certainly don’t count his impromptu drop-in and rear-end assault as us being together. Those are the only times I’ve seen Grady since that day, and when I’m in a relationship, I typically require a little kindness and affection. Though, the pre-rear-end assault part wasn’t so bad.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Holly.” Margot reaches over and pats my hand, then slides back to her desk.
“It was hot though,” she mutters. “No man has patted my ass like that in at least twenty years.”
She manages to leave me alone for a few hours, but when attendance reports come in a little after four, she jumps from her chair. “Sorry,” she says, “but I...uh, I have to cut out early. You okay here?” She inches toward the door.
I stare at the reports. Margot never says where she’s going, but she has to “cut out early”—as soon as attendance reports show up—at least once a week. I shrug her off, deciding it’s for the best. Cheyenne is still missing classes, not as many as she was before her dad approved her counseling, but enough that I’ve had to fudge the last two reports so she doesn’t get in trouble. “No problem. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She pauses at the door and turns back to me. Her mouth opens, then closes again in a very un-Margot-like display of hesitation. Finally, she says, “I’m sorry about Grady, but you’ll find someone better suited for you, hun.” And then she’s gone.
What the hell does she mean by that? I may not be some badass biker chick or anything, but is it really so unimaginable that a man like Sterling Grady could be with someone like me? Maybe I’m just not interesting enough to date a biker. I should try an accountant or someone else with an equally boring sounding job. But what the hell does she know? It wasn’t Margot he had pressed up against a door. It was me.
I’m about to pack up for the day when the main office door swings open. Looking up from my computer, I see none other than Cheyenne rushing toward me with wide eyes and shaking hands. She looks over her shoulder at the door several times before she rounds my desk and stands beside me. I turn to face her and practically whisper, “Cheyenne, what’s wrong?”
“There’s a man leaning on my car. I tried to call my dad, but he didn’t pick up. The guy said he had a message for Dad and he wants me to give it to him.”
Jumping to my feet and maneuvering around her, I cautiously walk toward the door and keep an eye on the inset window. “Did he leave or was he still there when you came in here?”
“He was still there. I didn’t wait to hear the message. Dad has very clear rules about talking to strangers, and that’s like, the one rule I don’t intend to break, ya know?” she says. I inch toward the door and stop breathing for a good few seconds before I catch myself. I can’t let myself freak out right now. Cheyenne needs me to be the adult. She came to me for a reason. The only problem is that now I want an adult to come deal with this for me.
Leaning against the old, rusted classic Volkswagen Bug that Cheyenne drives is a man in a black suit that costs more than my monthly gross pay. He’s all fine lines and perfect fit, and his body language exudes a confidence that only comes with a pay grade I’ll never know. His sun-kissed skin tells me he’s not from around here. Nobody from Mendocino County is particularly tan, especially not during this time of the year. We’re much too late into the fall to still have a lingering summer tan. The man fills out the suit well, which tells me he is either naturally gifted with a great body or he works for it. His black hair is gelled back, and he’s sporting some expansive as all hell sunglasses despite the fact that it’s cloudy out.
“You don’t know who he is?” I ask Cheyenne. She slides up beside me and presses herself against my side as she forces me to share the small window in the door.