The Casanova (The Miles High Club #3)(90)

“Take me home.”

“My house,” Elliot growls.

“Let me out of the car.” I lose control and I don’t give a damn any more. “You fucking asshole,” I scream.

Andrew’s eyes flick up to me in the mirror.

“Drive to my house,” Elliot demands, punching the seat in front of us. “You do not play fucking games with me. Do you hear me, Kathryn?” he screams.

“Oh, but you can flirt in German?” I yell. “Do me a favor and go back inside to her, you self-centered fucking asshole.”

Andrew grips the steering wheel; I can tell he’s unsure where to drive to.

“Do not fucking tempt me,” Elliot yells as the car slows at the traffic lights.

What the actual fuck . . . he didn’t just say that.

My anger hits a crescendo, I go to open the car door to get out and it’s locked. “Open the door,” I yell.

“Do not open the door,” Elliot orders.

Andrew’s nervous eyes flick up to the backseat. He’s unsure what to do.

“So help me God, Andrew, drive me to my house or I’m having you charged with kidnapping,” I scream.

Andrew’s eyes widen and he makes an instant U-turn.

Elliot punches the seat in front of him again.

The car pulls up at my house and the door lock releases. I get out and slam the door.

Elliot does too, and he follows me up the steps to my house. “Get the fuck away from me,” I snap. “How dare you.”

“How dare I what?” He holds his hands out wide as if shocked. “You’re the one that’s carrying on.”

“Don’t tempt you to go back to her? Be my fucking guest, Elliot. I dare you,” I spit.

He narrows his eyes.

“You’re the one who doesn’t want to be seen with me.”

“That’s not it and you know it,” he yells. “I don’t want drama, cut your shit.”

“Well, I don’t want to be your unpaid fucking prostitute any longer. If you’re ashamed to be seen with me in public, don’t see me in private.” I unlock the front door and push it open with force. Thank God nobody’s home, we’re screaming the house down here.

“Don’t fucking threaten me, Kathryn,” he growls.

“It’s not a threat.” I slam the door in his face. “It’s a promise,” I scream through it.

He punches the door and it rattles the front of the house.

“Leave!” I yell.

He punches it again and it echoes through the whole house.

“You are going to break the fucking door, Elliot. I mean it. Go. Away!” I put the deadlock on, and march up the stairs.

I peer out of the window and see him pacing on the pavement. Andrew is out of the car talking to him, obviously trying to calm him down.

My heart is pounding as I wait for his next move. Angry Elliot Miles is a beast to behold, and damn it, I don’t want to deal with him tonight.

Please . . . just go.

Ten minutes later, I hear his door slam, peer through the crack in the curtains, and watch the car slowly pull away. Relief fills me and I drop onto my bed. “Ugh,” I fume. “What a fucking asshole.”





Chapter 20


ELLIOT

I sit in the bar and sip my Scotch. I went to work this morning, but left early.

Not in the mood for work today. Not in the mood for anything, really.

I have a lead ball in my stomach, one that isn’t going away. I screwed up on Saturday night . . . bad.

But in my defense, she’s fucking infuriating. Did she really think I would sit there all night and watch someone come on to her without consequence?

I glance at my watch, it’s 2 p.m. I haven’t heard from her and I know that I’m not going to.

Typical fucking Kathryn Landon, stubborn as all hell.

I go over my options: there aren’t any. I either have to grovel or kiss her goodbye. I know she isn’t going to come looking for me anytime soon.

I exhale heavily and scroll through my phone, find the number I’m looking for and give a disgusted shake of my head. This is a first, I’ve never done this before. I’m usually glad when they leave. Sucking up to a woman is a new kind of uncharted-territory hell.

“Hello, Park Avenue Florist,” the girl answers.

“Can I send some flowers as a matter of urgency please?”

“Sure. We can deliver that in an hour, where to?”

“Kathryn Landon, Miles Media building, level ten.”

“What would you like to send?”

“Ummmm.” I think for a moment. “What would you suggest for . . . to get out of . . .”

“An apology?”

“Yes.”

“Well, how big an apology do you need?”

“Pretty big.” I roll my eyes. “The biggest you’ve got.”

“Okay, so red roses?”

“I guess.”

“A dozen.”

I frown. “Umm . . . stubborn kind of woman.”

“Four dozen?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Okay, and what do you want the card to say.”

“Hmm.” I think for a moment. “Maybe just, ‘I’m sorry.’”