Diary of a Bad Boy(32)

You guessed it, I might have said some things to Sutton unwillingly. You know, things like ‘you look pretty’—which I know every girl wants to hear—but not every guy wants to say out loud especially when he doesn’t want to give the girl false hope.

I blame alcohol. I blame it for everything. For being a dick to her most of the time when she doesn’t deserve it—even though most of my dickish moves happened sober. I blame it for holding her hand in the elevator, for entwining our fingers, for taking a moment to breathe her in, something I would have never done sober. And I blame it for the wicked thoughts I had about her last night, especially the one where my head was buried between her legs. And I blame alcohol for having to jack off in the shower this morning so I am somewhat presentable when I go to wake the ostrich.

Christ.

Thanks, Sal. You know, I might consider keeping the name. We’ll see.

Roark





ROARK





Just open the goddamn door. It’s your apartment, you own that doorknob, so put your hand on it and twist.

I reach out but don’t grab it.

Hell, what if she’s naked or something? I’m barely making it through my morning remembering those big, bold eyes of hers and the way she smelled like a fresh meadow even though it was so late.

The hand not holding my coffee drags over my face while my mind debates. She was upset last time when I didn’t wake her up, even though technically it’s not my responsibility. Still . . .

I sigh and reach for the handle again, slowly opening it. Please don’t let her be naked. Please don’t let her be naked.

Although . . . a little nip slip wouldn’t kill me.

No! It would. It would destroy me.

Don’t be naked.

I creak the door open and peer in.

What the hell?

I push the door all the way forward and find the bed completely made up and empty. The bathroom light is off, and it looks like no one has even been here.

What the fuck? Did she go home last night?

She better not have.

I pull my phone from my pocket and walk toward the kitchen, where I set down my coffee to type out a text to Sutton.

Roark: Did you go home last night?

I wait for a response, wondering if she possibly woke up early and traveled home to her place, but when I don’t hear back from her after ten minutes, I start to panic. So many things could have happened to her if she went home last night, and I don’t think I would forgive myself if she met with trouble.

Pacing, I consider my next move. A phone call. That’s simple.

I dial her number and wait.

And wait.

“Hi, you’ve reached Sutton. Sorry I missed your call, but if you give me a little bit of time, I’ll be sure to get back to you. Have a great day.”

Fuck.

I hang up.

Her voice sounds so chipper, so sweet with the cutest hint of a Texas drawl.

Why didn’t she answer?

I tap the counter, my fingers drumming over the hard surface as I decide what to do. Maybe another text.

Yes, a text. Maybe she’s in a meeting and couldn’t answer. A text she can discreetly answer.

Roark: Hey, can you just let me know you’re okay?

Simple. If she had any decency at all, she’d text me back. Given her addictive southern charm, she’d never let a text go unanswered, especially one that clearly shows concern. Hell, should I have used asterisks to show concern?

I bite my lip and stare at the text. Maybe.

Fuck, okay . . .

Roark: Just a quick text. *concerned*

I’ve been playing it cool. I’m managing the panic that’s currently floating in my chest, but that text, yup, that made me look desperate.

Very desperate.

But you know, I’m desperate to make sure she’s okay, because she’s my client’s daughter, one of my closest clients, and I would feel like utter shit if something happened to her on my watch. Not that she is mine to watch over, but she was here last night, and if she was upset, really that upset and she left, that’s on me. I don’t want to disappoint my clients. Ever.

That’s why I’m doing this. Trying to reach out. For my client.

Not because I’m starting to feel something for her . . .





Half an hour later with no response. I’m going to kill her if she’s not already dead.

Remember when I said I was panicking? That was nothing compared to what I’m feeling right now. I’m in full-blown heart attack mode as I make my way to her office at her dad’s foundation. I have no idea where she lives or I would have gone there, and I sure as shit wasn’t about to ask her dad. The office was the next best thing.

When the elevators part, I storm to reception and ask, “Is Sutton Green here?” Startled, the woman who’s worked behind the desk for years now, the same woman whose name I can never remember, greets me with a smile.

“Mr. McCool, how nice to see you—”

I grip the desk and lean over it, trying not to look as crazy as I feel. “Is Sutton Green here?”

The poor lady swallows hard and nods while pointing. “Down the hall, third door on the right.”

And just like that, the lid of my head pops off and a ball of fire furies out of me as I spin on my heel and stomp toward the third door on the right.