One Bossy Offer (59)

“...I can’t deny that, but whose fault is that?” Her words are quiet, then louder when she says, “Coffee, Cream. Let’s go.”

She leads them forward.

I start to follow, taking long strides to keep up with her as she damn near bolts away from me.

“You’re still following me?” Her mouth drops.

“We have business to discuss.”

“I have a phone and email for that. Learn to use them,” she spits back.

In all my infinite asshole wisdom, I deserve that.

“Just tell me you’ll avoid Niehaus?”

She doesn’t answer, just shoots me a scathing look.

Then she turns toward an ornate two-story house like the other grand homes on this street and heads up the steps to the front door.

I’m undeterred, stopping at the base of the stairs.

She freezes and looks back at me over her shoulder.

“You’re not coming in. Leave me the hell alone.”

The second my foot touches the first step, Coffee spins around so fast the leash flies out of Jenn’s hands. Cream is right behind him.

The dogs stand between us like a wall of canine muscle, their eyes heavy with promises they don’t want to act on if I don’t take the hint.

“Jenn—” One more step forward.

Coffee’s spine stiffens.

Cream yawns widely, a stress signal that finally registers in my madhouse of a brain.

She looks back at me one more time over the dogs, her eyes still hot with rage.

“I’ll go,” I say, backing up and turning around.

The damn dogs have effectively ended any conversation, any understanding, we might’ve had tonight. Still, I’m glad she has them.

While a couple of large dogs won’t be enough to deter Simone’s bullshit, she’s safer by far with them.

Benson waits patiently at the curb. He’s pulled up a few blocks from where we stopped and I ran out.

I get in the car and immediately sink into the seat, wishing the leather could bury me alive.

“I’m sorry it didn’t go better,” he tells me.

A simple cutting glance is all he needs.

“She has no idea who she’s dealing with,” I say bitterly. “She doesn’t understand.”

“Sir, in my experience, a woman who’s already miffed at you is unlikely to take your advice. Explanations are usually pretty helpful, too.”

I glare at him in the mirror.

But he knows me too well.

“Thank you, doctor. If we were dealing with anyone besides the bride of Satan herself, I’d agree. But when you have something Simone Niehaus wants, she comes up with the sickest shit. You know it as well as I do. She’s after Jenn’s property because of me. I’m not subjecting Jenn to collateral damage because I was stupid enough to dance with the devil once upon a fucked up time.”

“I only know what you’ve told me. However, you may want to temper the devil references if you decide to be a little more honest.”

Classic Benson, doling out good advice I never asked for.

“I remember too well what Miss Niehaus is capable of,” he continues. “I’m just not sure Miss Landers will get over whatever it is you did to upset her.”

“Probably not,” I agree.

“Then if you want to communicate the danger, perhaps you’d better get past your damage first. No one wants more collateral damage,” Benson says.

He doesn’t need to remind me.

“Don’t worry. If I can’t get through to her, I’ll find another way to deal with it.”

Unfortunately, I know what scaring Simone off means.

I’m going to have to break my vow of silence and talk to that soulless, throat-slashing bitch.





I finish replying to an email from Legal and pick up my phone to check my messages.

It feels like a solid brick today.

One missed voicemail from Louise.

No new texts.

Jenn hasn’t so much as sworn at me since the night that vulture of a woman showed up.

I keep thinking she’ll call or send some snarky-ass message eventually. Then I can cough up a real apology and maybe we can get back to normal.

Yeah.

Wishful fucking thinking.

Still, I don’t want to call her.

Not when she needs time to cool down at her own pace and an honest break from the bullshit I regret inflicting on her.

I’m also sorry as hell I’m not talking to Jenn right now.

I’ve dreaded this conversation like a cancer diagnosis. It’s been years, and if Simone hadn’t invaded my life again, I’d continue sending her notes by high-paid pigeons—lawyers who charge extortionate hourly rates to deal with the human shit I can’t stand to touch.

Only, I’ve lost that luxury.

If I want to keep her the hell away from Jennifer Landers, I have to roll up my sleeves and get my hands filthy.

I punch the number into my office phone, put the receiver to my ear, and stare out the window.

Focusing on the view from my high-rise office might avert my heart from clawing its way up my throat.

Might.

“That took longer than I expected,” Simone answers with the same cheery lilt in her voice I remember, barely changed by years of chronic smoking and age.