The Ex Files (Ocean View #1)(22)

And then I remember.

My car.

Shit. Memories of Luke driving me home flood, of leaving my car at the restaurant, of Luke promising to bring it to me. He took my keys.

Digging in my bag to find my keys, there are only two on the ring—my apartment and office keys and nothing else.

No car key. My mind drifts back to last night, to Luke promising to get my car here before I had to get to work, but it was three by the time he left. Three am, and the man is supposed to be at work by seven. Fuck. There’s no way my car is here, and now I have no way to get to the office. Still, I need to check before I panic too much.

Phone in hand, I run down the stairs, skipping the elevator and heading straight to the parking garage and my assigned spot.

There she is.

My beautiful white car, parked in my spot, in perfect condition.

So perfect, it takes me a moment to notice…

The tire. The tire has been replaced. The spare no longer sits on the rear passenger side, obviously different than the others and needing replacing. But instead, there’s a tire to match the other three.

Luke fixed my tire.





It’s nearly eleven when I walk into the office, and when I unlock the door, Gabrielle’s head pops up, eyes wide as she stares at me. Stress is written across her face, her hair today held with a pink gel pen.

“Hey, Gabrielle,” I mutter as I walk in and head for my desk.

“Oh, my God, Cassie! What the—I was—did you?!” She’s stuttering, pushing her chair back when she stands and knocking her cup of sparkly, colorful pens over. Her hands move frantically as she picks them up, her eyes still nearly popping out of her face. “Where have you been!?” she asks, and it’s strange… she sounds almost… angry. But, even more, she looks angry, standing there with her hands on her hips and glaring at me.

It’s actually kind of hard to take serious. In her tea-length shirt with little dinosaurs on it, she almost looks like a kindergarten teacher who caught a kid eating glue.

“What?”

“What? What? I’ll tell you what! Last night I get a text from you saying you’re going to some random bar with your date. Then nothing. Nothing at all. So I sat there, panicked, wondering if I should call someone or maybe drive down there and see if you were okay, until, at two in the morning, you send me another text that he’s driving you home because you drank too much. You! Cassandra! Cassandra, who has a rule about literally everything in life, including a date is limited to one glass of wine, and all dates end by ten.” Her words are frantic, smushed together, and shouted quickly, so my already swimming brain pounds a bit with each syllable.

“I don’t have a rule for everything.” I try to argue her last point. I’m not that boring.

“You do! See!” She grabs a pad of paper with loopy numbers written on the left in a variety of different colors. At the top, it says “Cassie’s Rules.”

“Is that…?”

“It’s all of your rules.”

“Why do you have a list of rules?” I ask as I grab it out of her hand. The top four are my dating rules, but then…

Dates must end by 10 pm.

A man who mentions his mother more than three times on a date—red flag.

Always have a backup outfit.

If they say their ex was crazy, they are the crazy one.

And on and on. All of the tidbits of things I’ve said, rules I’ve laid out.

“In case I ever need to know them.” Now she’s blushing a bright red, no longer frustrated but almost embarrassed, looking at her desk and avoiding my eye.

“Well. You take great notes,” I say, staring and reading over them some more.

Just because he holds the door doesn’t make him a gentleman.

Any man who hates dogs = a jerk.

“It’s my job.” She looks at me. “Where were you, Cassie?”

“I slept in.” I sigh.

“You slept in?!”

“Yes.”

“You?!”

“Yes, Gabrielle.”

“Was he… with you?” Her eyes are saucers now, and she hesitates like she doesn’t know if she’s crossing some kind of line she should stay behind.

“With me?”

“Did he sleep over?” Frustration coats her words, annoyed that I’m not getting to the point sooner.

“God, no, he’s a client.”

“But you stayed out until two am with him.” She’s got me there. And then, for some unknown reason, I spill. Maybe it’s because I’m still exhausted. Maybe it’s because I’m uncaffeinated. Maybe it’s because I can’t think of a single other woman I could spill this to. And I really, really need to tell this to someone other than myself.

“Uh, and he kissed me.” She stares at me, eyes wider than before and mouth hanging open.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“He kissed me?” I say the words like a question, as if I need her to confirm for me.

“He kissed you.”

“He kissed me.” I nod, and we’re both silent. I can’t help but wonder if maybe I made a mistake in telling this detail to my employee. Maybe I should have kept it close to me, stayed professional. It’s not like we have this kind of relationship, we— “Oh, my God!” The sound is shocking from my quiet, demure assistant, blasting my eardrums as it breaks from her with an uncharacteristic shriek.