One Bossy Offer (103)

“...I’m sorry. I didn’t ask to be involved with this. I know Miles thinks he’s doing the right thing and—”

“And?”

She doesn’t answer.

“You don’t think he is? Well, that makes two of us.”

She still doesn’t answer, staring down at her nails.

“Why doesn’t he want me to know what’s going on? I know it’s that Niehaus creeper again. Nothing else would get him this upset.”

“I’ve already said too much,” she strains out.

“Louise...”

“Jenn.” She looks up slowly, her eyes set like steel. “Don’t make me call security. I’d never forgive myself.”

Jaw, meet floor.

I stagger back a step and throw my hands up.

“Whatever. I’ll go.” I have no intention, but I have to disarm her somehow.

I start walking away slowly, holding my breath.

“Miss Landers? You’re not going to say anything, are you?” Louise waits until I look at her.

I shake my head slowly.

“Then if I told you he was at the Sweeter Grind a few blocks away...” She pauses.

“I’ll do my best to help. Thank you, Louise.”

“Please do,” she whispers, guilt written all over her face. “I’ve already said too much.”

I pull my phone out of my purse and search the nearest Sweeter Grind.

It’s a three-minute walk.

Perfect.

I head for the elevator and dart through people in the lobby, bursting out of the building and sprinting toward the coffee shop.

My shoe catches on something rubbery—a blown out bit of tire or a discarded boot—and next thing I know, I’m spinning.

Shit!

I barely land on my feet in the tumble without falling, but my ankle twists with a sickening crunch.

It hurts like hell.

Groaning, I lift my foot and shake it out.

I can still move it, thank God, so I know I can keep going, limping through the pain.

“Yo, you need to be more careful! People throw crap everywhere around here.” A tall guy with shaggy blond hair snaps.

What’s his deal?

He bends down and picks up a rubbery violin case from the sidewalk where I stand.

The object I tripped over. Oops.

“Sorry!” I mutter without stopping.

I’m almost there.

A minute later, I yank the door open, expecting to find a wall of scowling suits that looks like a typical corporate shakedown with mafia vibes.

But Miles isn’t here with an entourage.

He and Bradley are perched in an overstuffed leather booth, and across from him—Simone Niehaus. Tall and carnivorous, wearing a navy-blue pantsuit that makes her look more like a mob capo than a media mogul.

What the actual hell is going on?

I slide into a chair at a two-seat table in the corner, hoping to observe from a safe distance.

But Simone takes a drink of her coffee, sets it down on the table, and turns her head like a snake sensing something small and furry and edible.

The way she looks at me feels nastier than any rattlesnake, especially that weird, gleeful smile.

With my heart in my throat, she points at me.

Oh God Oh God.

So much for cover.

Dread consumes me as I stand, cringe, and approach the table.

There’s no point in hiding now.

“Oh, Miles,” she says. “I’m so glad to see your little girlfriend showed up to spy. Maybe she can talk some sense into you.”

His head whips around in a fury I’ve never seen.

Cold, cutting eyes slice me open.

His mouth twists like he wants to say something—or like it takes all his effort not to.

But he hasn’t gotten a word out when Simone’s smile widens and she says, “Have a seat, missy. You’re just in time to help him come to terms with his dearest father’s antics.”

“Antics? What do you mean?” Every word comes out tasting metallic.

Like copper.

Like blood.

Like I totally shouldn’t be here.

With a hissing snicker, her focus shifts to Miles. “You never told her? You didn’t tell her about your recent family revelations? My, my Miles... Did you even tell her about our history?”

The color washes out of his face.

I need to do something, but I’m at a total loss.

“He said you two were friends—hard to imagine,” I force out.

“Friends?” She stares at him. “Friends? Is that what you call it?”

“Simone!” Her name flies out of his mouth like a shotgun blast.

She meets my eyes with a dark look.

“Lovers. Paramours. Friends with benefits. Fuck buddies. There are so many words for the same thing on a scale of eloquence to gutter rubbish, I suppose, though I’m not sure any of those fit. I’d like to think we were soulmates, Jennifer. Perhaps we still are. We were certainly heavy before—well, did Miles tell you that, or should I spill the beans?”

My heart rabbits so hard I fidget my hands together, digging my nails into my skin.

I’m not sure how I’m still standing against the rancor in his eyes.

“Simone, shut it,” he snaps.

Bradley lifts a hand like he wants to lay it on Miles’ shoulder, but he flinches back at the last second.