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“Did she say anything before she left?”
“That information is also classified.”
“Can I do anything to get an answer out of you?”
Her finger taps on her chin. “You could take your shirt off.” Her eyes squeeze shut. “Wait! No. That would be wrong now. Damn her, ruining all my fantasies.”
“So she told you about us?” I ask, trying to keep this conversation on track. Talking to Mallory is like trying to keep the focus of a puppy when he sees a squirrel dart across the street.
“She did.”
“Let me guess: That information is classified as well?”
She shrugs. “You’re just going to have to wait for her to get back.”
“Awesome.”
“Sorry. Chicks before dicks, bro.”
I nod, understanding girl code. “Thanks, Mal.”
On the way back to my apartment, my thoughts wander to the darkest corners of my mind.
Please don’t let this be over before we’ve even begun.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Carla
Ithought Mallory called me because I didn’t come home last night. I thought she was being her usual dramatic self. I thought she was checking on me like a good friend.
I thought of literally every scenario except for this one.
Mallory wore a look of panic when I walked through the apartment door this morning.
“I know, I know. I should’ve called. But you’ll forgive me when I give you all the juicy details of my whereabouts last night.” I kick off my shoes and drop my purse onto the floor.
“Uh, Carla,” she said. “You have a visitor.”
My body froze when I saw him standing there. In my living room. In my apartment. In New York.
Joe.
“You wouldn’t answer my calls or texts,” he said. “This is my Hail Mary pass.”
Leave it to a man to compare our love life to football.
To say I was stunned is an understatement. But that’s as far as my emotions went. I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t angry. Seeing him in front of me after all this time, looking handsome as ever in jeans and a polo shirt, I was numb.
I told him we could go grab coffee and talk. Had to ignore the daggers Mallory shot me. There was no way I’d be able to have a serious talk with her eavesdropping.
On the way to the café, all I could think about was the timing.
Men are like giant toddlers. Picture an adorable kid playing with a toy, claiming it’s his favorite. He goes everywhere with it. Eats with it, sleeps with it. He’s obsessed with it. When he’s had his fill, he tosses it to the side and moves on to the next, cooler toy.
But when another toddler picks up that discarded toy, oh, then the boy pitches a fit. “Mine!” he screams, doing anything and everything to get that toy back.
He only wanted that toy because another kid had it. He didn’t really want it back. He just didn’t want anyone else to have any fun with it.
