Two days later, Kat observed the office she’d once made love to Michael in. “So… this is mine, as far as the eye can see.”
“Yeah. All fifty-two square feet of it. Don’t get too excited.” Gary reached into the pocket of his shirt—a florescent pink one this time, with blue and gold pineapples printed all over it—and handed her a single key. “Gets you into all the locked storage so you can get to the equipment for lessons. When you’re a sure thing, you can have a key to the building.”
Kat grinned at him. “Aw, Gary, you know how to sweet-talk the ladies, don’t you?”
“The desk stays, the chair stays, the rest… bah.” Gary waved his hands in dismissal of the boxes in the corner, the few framed photos on the walls left by coaches of the past. “Do whatever. Just don’t paint, and don’t ruin the carpet.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” She gave him a sharp salute, which he rolled his eyes at. “Hey, can Thomas string a few of my rackets later?”
“Sure thing. He’s got those girls again—fuck all knows why they keep coming back since they clearly aren’t interested in the sport. After that, he’s free. You need to start taking over some of those clients, especially the giggly ones. Maybe you should watch, see what you’re up against.”
Kat grimaced at the reminder of the two cute high school-aged girls, who looked country-club perfect in their bright white tennis skirts and court shoes that hadn’t seen a hint of dirt. They did more chatting than ground stroking, and she knew they drove Thomas up a wall with their attempts at flirting. “Why are you punishing me?”
“You wanted the job. You do the job. Now get yourself situated and come back out. We need to start looking for partners for you.” Gary knocked on the open door, then left her with the mostly empty office.
Hers. All hers. She walked over to the desk, sat down at the chair, then gripped the edge of wood when the chair nearly tipped her backward. “Whoa!” That would have to be fixed.
Digging into her bag, she reached for her cell phone, which she’d kept off since walking into the center two hours before. She needed to call Michael. Or maybe text. She knew when his flight left for L.A., but… how long did that take? Were they still in the air? Maybe she’d text now, asking him to call her later so she could tell him the news over the phone.
Oh, holy shit in the woods, she was in deep with this guy. She wanted to tell him news on the phone? God, it had to be love. She never wanted to talk on the phone. This was a true sign.
The second her phone turned on, she was bombarded. Texts, voice mails, e-mails, Twitter and Facebook notifications. She laughed, letting the phone do its thing and catch up. But the notifications just kept coming…
Whoa, something big was happening.
She opened her texts first, ready to send one to Michael, but noticed Sawyer had sent her… over a dozen? In two hours? And from the preview, he was using shouty caps. What the…
ANSWER THE PHONE, KATRINA.
JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
I SWEAR TO GOD, KAT.
ANSWER ANSWER ANSWER FUCKING ANSWER
TELL ME THIS ISN’T WHAT I THINK IT IS.
The last one included a link. With shaking fingers, she tapped the link, waiting for it to load on the tennis center’s slow Wi-Fi. And when it did, she let out a gasp. Her stomach clutched, and she wasn’t sure if she was going to throw up or pass out.
No, no, no, not again.
No.
Chapter 24
The second Michael dropped his bag on the hotel bed in the outskirts of Los Angeles, he reached into his suit jacket and used his thumbnail to flip the ringer from “vibrate” to “on.” And his phone immediately rang. In his haste to answer, he fumbled the phone. He wanted it to be Kat. Needed it to be Kat.
Probably should have created a specific ringtone for her by now. That would have made more sense.
The phone finished ringing before he managed to fish it out. But before he could even curse, it began again. He looked at the display, saw Sawyer Grade’s name, and sighed. “Yeah, Sawyer, what’s up?”
“Jesus, man, I’m sorry.”
“What?” Michael toed off his shoes and went to put them in the closet, out of the way. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m the one who set you up with her. I thought… I don’t know. There was that one little kernel of hope that she’d been telling the truth, you know? She was a damn good liar.”
Michael froze, his suit jacket half on a wooden hanger, half off. “Sawyer, speak slowly please, and use sentences that work. Who and what are we talking about? Kat? Has something happened to Kat?”