Diary of a Bad Boy(10)

Turning back to the phone, unsure why I’m still engaging with this man—maybe because I’m worried if I don’t, he’ll never give me back my phone.

Sutton: I don’t see how any of that is your business.

Roark: It’s not.

Well, at least he’s honest—that’s a little refreshing.

Roark: But I still want to know.

Of course.

Sutton: We are getting off topic. When can I get my phone?

The dots that were bouncing back and forth on the screen, indicating he was typing a response, stop.

And then there is silence.

Why? Why is this something he’s avoiding? I don’t get it. Does he enjoy tormenting women? Is it a favorite pastime of his? What could he possibly want with my phone?

“Louise, I very well might lose my mind. And then what happens to you? I would say you can go live with my dad on his ranch, but I don’t think he’ll treat you like the princess you are. He would stick you outside with the rest of the cats, and you would have to fend for yourself.” I scratch the side of her head. “You’re too pretty to be a barn cat.”

Blowing out a long sigh, I swing toward the light on my nightstand and turn it off just as my phone rings. I look down, seeing my number.

He better be calling about a location—and he better be serious about it—or I might punch something.

“Hello?”

He sighs. “Hey, lass.” I hate to admit it, I really don’t want to admit it at all, but his Irish accent . . . it’s sexy. Okay, there, it’s out in the open. There is no denying it, hearing his voice over the phone does something to my insides, lighting them up in a weird way that sends shivers down my spine.

All from one word . . . lass.

“What do you want?”

He chuckles. “Ya seem a little uptight.”

“Maybe because you still have my phone.”

“Is that all you want to talk about?”

I drape my arm over my eyes, counting to five. What does my father always say to me? You can catch more flies with honey, something like that. Maybe I’m going about this all wrong. This guy seems to be someone who gets what he wants when it comes to women, so maybe I need to flirt a little to get my phone back.

The only problem with that? I really don’t know how to flirt.

Even when Kent and I were dating, he said I was terrible at it. But at this point, I will do just about anything, so if it means flirting, then so be it.

“I guess not,” I swallow hard, hating myself. “What do you want to talk about, big boy?” I ask in what I like to believe is my best sultry voice.

And instead of a response, there is silence, and not the good kind of silence. I weirded him out, I know it. Heck, I weirded myself out. Big boy? Where did that come from?

I blame Maddie.

Oh God. If Maddie heard what I said she’d have choked on her own saliva from laughing too hard.

“Did you just call me big boy?” he finally asks after letting my words awkwardly settle between us.

“I mean . . . do you not like that?” I wince. Kill me now. Put me out of my misery. Maybe Louise could shift and smother me.

“Just from the pics and texting you back and forth, you don’t seem to be one to get high but . . . are you high?”

“No,” I groan. “Just forget it. I was trying to be nice so I could get my phone. And since you seem to be a ladies’ man, I thought maybe you wanted to be called that. But it was stupid. Forget it happened.”

He chuckles and the gritty sound of it spreads goosebumps up and down my arm. “If you want to call me big boy, feel free.”

“I really, really don’t.”

“Fair enough. Can I have a nickname for you?”

“No,” I answer quickly, my nice demeanor faltering. “I don’t think we’ll know each other long enough to earn nicknames.”

“Ah, now that hurts me. And here I thought we were forming an everlasting bond.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“We’re not going to be friends after this?”

“Whenever this ends, which I hope is tomorrow, I don’t think we will. We seem to have different ways of looking at life—”

“How so?” he asks, a challenge in his voice.

He can’t possibly be that obtuse. From my pictures alone, he should know I’m a goody two shoes. I do everything by the book, and even though I might take a lot of selfies, they are always sweet, never sexy, because I’m not that girl. Never will be.

“I don’t want to insult you, so I think we should just set up a time to meet tomorrow.”

“My day is full of meetings,” he answers tersely, as if I already insulted him. Even on a Saturday?

“Just tell me where I can find you and I’ll do all the work.”

“No,” he answers matter-of-factly. “My clients are high-profile, so their privacy is important. I can’t have you barging into any of my meetings.”

High-profile? What does he do? I want to ask but decide better of it. The less I know about this guy, the better, because I’m already attracted to his voice. I want to keep my opinion of his personality at an all-time high of annoyance. Finding out that he saves endangered animals and his clients are people like Leonardo DiCaprio and Ellen DeGeneres would be detrimental.