The Guy on the Left (The Underdogs, #2)(72)

“Hello?”

“Ms. Arden?”

“Yes.”

“Hi, this is Marissa with Brett Tompkins’ office.”

“We’ve met Marissa, how can I help you?”

“Well, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but it appears your check for rent this month has been returned.”

“I’m sorry?” Mortified, I rush to my open laptop and click into my bank account to see that I am, in fact, in the negative by nearly seven hundred dollars.

“I’m so sorry. I’ll bring a cashier’s check by tomorrow, if that’s all right.”

“There’s a two-hundred-dollar late fee after the sixth.”

“That’s today. Can it possibly be waived?”

I wrack my brain on how I might have mismanaged my money.

“I can ask Mr. Tompkins.”

“No. NO! Please don’t do that. I’ll bring it by today before five.”

“That’s fine. See you then.”

“FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!”

I toss my cell on the bed and jump when I see Dante’s reflection in the vanity mirror, his eyes wide. “You owe me sooo much money. The F word is four dollars each.”

“Dante. I’m telling you right now. Get out of here and find something to do for thirty minutes. I need thirty minutes.”

“Mommy, I added it up, and that’s,” he starts ticking off his fingers.

“You have no idea because you can’t multiply! OUT!”

“FINE!” He makes his way out of the bedroom as I sit on my bed with my laptop.

Within a matter of minutes, I know exactly why I’m poor. My education. My deferred student loan payments. After half an hour on the phone, I’m no closer to a solution.

“SHIT!”

“Two more dollars, Mommy!” Dante calls from where his sonic ears pick up signals from space. It’s a miracle Troy and I have gotten away with our bickering so far.

“Dante, we no longer give curse money in this house.”

“Nuh-uh.” Deciding not to fight with my six-year-old, I busy myself with my laundry, trying my best not to freak out. I’ve been through worse. I’ll get through this. Opening my dresser drawer, I see Troy’s cream sweater sitting on top of my T-shirts. I pull it out to see a note attached to the breast. I slip the sweater on and bring the V of the neck to my nose, inhaling deeply. I blame the tears that spring to my eyes on my hormones.



Wear this when you need me, pretty woman, and I hope you wear it a lot.



Yours,

Troy





Walking up the sidewalk into Brett’s office, I cringe when I see his BMW in the parking lot. The man is rarely there during business hours, why does he have to be in today? Cashier’s check in hand and emergency savings drained, I walk into the reception area, thankful to see his door closed. Envelope ready, I hand it to the receptionist.

“222 Ohara drive. You called this morning.”

“Yes, hold on a minute.” She picks up her phone and presses an extension. “Mr. Tompkins.” I wince as she looks up at me with a plastic smile. “Ms. Arden is here.” I’m still cringing when he opens his door and lifts brown eyes to mine.

“Hey, you,” he says, ushering me toward his office.

“Hey, Brett, I can’t stay, I have to pick up Dante from the neighbors.”

He slides his hands in his slacks. This man was my college dream. He’d been a slight obsession for me for multiple semesters. He’s beautiful in the polished suit sense, a take control kind of man, ambitious. All the things I found attractive. But after just a few short months of dating him, all my curiosity was quenched and swapped out for disappointment. But I can’t help but to be thankful for the trade-off as I take another whiff of the cologne from my sweater.

“Come on,” he tilts his head toward his office, “you’ve got a few minutes.”

“Just a few,” I say, walking into his office. He closes the door behind him as my phone buzzes.



Troy: How many sleeps left?



I press my lips together to hide my smile and glance up at Brett, who’s taking a seat behind his desk.



Clarissa: I can’t talk right now. I’m in the middle of a love affair with a cream sweater. Which I will need every day.

Troy: (Smiley face emoji) Call you later, baby, I need to check-in.



My heart warms at the sentiment.



Clarissa: It’s a date. (Kissing face emoji)



Brett clears his throat. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine. Just stopped by to pay rent.”

“Yeah. I saw that. Everything okay?”

“This is embarrassing. But yes. Everything is fine.”

Visions of bitch-slapping receptionists dancing in my head, I give him a polite smile. That witch knew we were dating because I’ve met him at his office more than once. I’m sure she wants nothing more than to bone her boss, if she hasn’t already. It occurs to me now just how often he called to tell me he’d be working late at the office.

I’m willing to bet she pranced in his office today with his morning coffee, twirling her hair with a ‘guess whose check bounced?’ ready on her tongue.