Devoured (Devoured, #1)(11)

This time, I don’t immediately answer because there’s something that chafes me raw about going out to dinner and using Lucas’s money to do so. It makes me feel . . . well, sort of cheap, even though I know that’s ridiculous. I’m sure his assistant takes other people out on all sorts of dinner and lunch dates, swiping Lucas’s credit card at as many restaurants as she can reasonably get away with. If I go, tonight won’t be any different.

Except for the glaring fact that it so obviously is different.

Kylie Martin: Just let me know something in the next hour, by 6pm, okay?

I ease my butt down on the edge of my bed. The mattress dips down a tad in that particular spot and I make a vow to go for a run first thing tomorrow morning. Clutching the sides of the laptop, I stare at the messages at the bottom of the computer screen. I can’t look away, even when the words start to blur into one another and all I’m able to see is a dizzying swirl of blue and white and black.

Does Kylie genuinely know something about Lucas that might delay the foreclosure? But even if she does, why would she betray her boss like that to help me? She’s been working for Lucas for a long time—at least a couple years—and I’m no one special to her. Other than this afternoon, I’ve only met her one other time in my entire life and we hadn’t had much to talk about other than the usual pleasantries.

Then, another possible reason behind Kylie’s invitation comes to me, knocking me upside the head like a brick. My thoughts shift to a completely different direction.

What if her inviting me out is some sort of setup just to get me out of the house for something? Like Lucas and those two contractors coming back over here tonight so they can go over where to put the gaudy house he’ll more than likely start building in two weeks or how much of Gram’s cabin they should keep around for firewood.

A frustrated noise escapes my lips. I press my fingers to the computer keys and type out a message in record time.

Why can’t you just tell me now? I demand.

For five minutes, Kylie doesn’t answer, but I see the little notification letting me know that she’s typing in the center of the message box. I’m impatient as I wait, tapping my fingertips on the flat space on either side of the mouse pad and grinding my teeth back and forth, the clicking noise coursing tiny prickles through my body. The teeth gnashing has got to be the worst in the history of awful nervous habits. It’s one that I picked up as a kid after my parents dissolved their ill-fated marriage that not even relaxation massages or yoga have been able to control or stop.

If Tori could see me right now, she’d hand me a piece of gum and tell me that my teeth will be nubs by the time I’m 40.

I’m so irritable today I’d probably throw one of Tori’s many stress balls at her head. Or five or six of them.

Kylie Martin: Sorry, I’m only willing to do it in person. If it’s not tonight or by tomorrow evening, it will be too late to do anything.

She’s giving me an ultimatum. She’s using a limited timeframe to coerce me into going out to dinner with her, and I don’t like it one bit. Ever since my sophomore year at college, I’ve tried hard to avoid people who do that to me because it’s too reminiscent of the boy I dated all through high school who wanted to control everything I did.

Preston had had different demands for something or another every other day, and each one was something he’d change his mind about as soon as I followed through. By the time he ended things with me he swore I was co-dependent. Looking back at the situation now, I was.

I still am.

I focus on the screen again, attempting to ignore the bevy of emotions that thinking about Preston always seems to bring about. I don’t love him. Tori says I probably never did and just went out with him because of my parental issues. Still, there’s a bitter ping in the center of my chest.

Swallowing back memories and exasperation and the sense of defeat, I send Kylie a reply: I don’t like being bullied any more than I enjoy being given a couple hours to decide something.

Kylie fires back a response seconds later. It’s just dinner—it’s not like I’m asking you to get pregnant with my blue-haired love child and come live with us in Paris, you know? Like I wrote you before, I know a way you can save your grandmother’s house. You just have to . . . trust me. I can’t do anything more than that online.

Massaging my upper nose in a slow, circular motion, I start tapping out a one-handed reply. It’s only a few words, but it takes me a couple minutes and several tries to make sure I don’t sound like the blubbering idiot I feel like right now.

Where and what time?

I wonder if she’s smiling wherever she is because she immediately writes Yay! About a minute later, she adds, Fondue. Oh God, please tell me you love fondue? After I respond positively she types one last comment:

Kickass—Fondue it is, then. I’ll pick you up at your place at seven, and I promise to have you home by midnight. See, I’m a respectful date and won’t even try to get to second base. Catch up with you soon!

I send Kylie a couple more messages asking her if she’s going for casual or formal dress and whether she can park at the end of the driveway so Gram doesn’t see her, but she doesn’t answer either of them. I startle when I hear the front door slam. It rattles the bookshelf in the corner of my room, and I stumble off the bed, nearly breaking my neck on a pair of tall boots I left in the middle of the floor. Glancing out the window, I see my grandmother’s Land Rover sitting in the driveway, backed in so that the open trunk is closest to the house.