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Which is stupid, because it’s not like I know Savannah. I’ve only met her once. And they’re fucking text messages. It’s not like I could hear her tone by reading them, anyway.
Or that I would have the emotional sensitivity to interpret her tone of voice, even if she was standing right in front of me.
That I’m even thinking about shit like this is a sign of just how off kilter I am.
I dictate a message back before I can let this woman get even more in my head.
I’ll be out for lunch, but back by dinner.
Should I say something more?
Should I apologize for not telling her I would be out for lunch?
Fuck.
Pissed off that I’m even thinking about this, I tell my phone to silence notifications and crank up some Nirvana. My car is equipped to self-drive, but that feature keeps the car driving the speed limit, so I don’t turn it on. Besides, the point of driving—instead of calling a driver—is to feel the car and the road and the acceleration. By the time I’m on highway 71 heading towards Austin, I almost feel like my normal self.
Martin’s office is in a skyscraper downtown. It’s in one of a pair of buildings called the Prescott towers. One tower is offices. The other is a hotel.
Thank God, they offer valet parking, because traffic in downtown Austin is always a goddamn nightmare and parking is even worse. When I make it up to Martin’s office on the top floor, his assistant shows me in right away.
Surprisingly, the rest of the law firm’s office is empty. When the assistant leaves, I throw myself into the chair and start talking before he even looks up from his computer.
“Where the hell is everyone else? Does no one else in your office even show up anymore?”
His hands still on the keyboard, then he pushes back in his chair before turning to look at me, slowly arching one eyebrow.
“It’s Sunday.”
I blink. “Really?”
Martin smirks. “Yes. Really.”
“If it’s Sunday, why are you in the office?”
“Because my asshole best friend who I haven’t seen in two months messaged me first thing in the morning and said he wanted to meet me. That’s why.”
“Then why was your assistant here?”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Because I pay her very well to come in on Sundays if I need her to. Since you have literally never demanded to see me on such short notice before, I didn’t know what the hell was up.”
“You could’ve said it was Sunday and told me to fuck off.” And then I think about the message he sent me saying he had to move some things around. “Do you normally work on Sundays?”
“No.” Then he shrugs. “Okay, sometimes.”
“Were you working today?”
“No. I was not in the office before nine this morning.”
“Then what things did you have to move around?”
“Well, there were three women in my bed when I woke up, so I had to move them around to get up.”
“Seriously?” Although I’ve been best friends with Martin for nearly a decade, neither of us engage in locker room talk. If he’s regularly with three women at a time, I’ve never heard about it before now.
“No. Not seriously. Jesus, don’t be such a dumb ass.” He scrubs a hand down his face.
“So it was a business meeting you had to move?”
