Page 85 of Play Dirty

“You want to talk?” he asks, leaning against the machine.

“No.”

“So you called and asked me to meet you here, but you don’t want to talk?” He pauses. “You and Stevie have a fight?”

“Search the internet,” I mutter. “See what you find of her in New York last night.”

He frowns but pulls out his phone and starts typing. It takes about thirty seconds before I see his eyebrows lift a little.

“I repeat the question—you and Stevie have a fight?”

“No.”

“You think there’s something to this?”

“I don’t fucking know.”

“What does she say about it?”

“Nothing. She called me for a minute and then had to go before we could talk about anything.”

“Did she sound normal?”

“Rushed, but yes. She said she missed me before she hung up.”

“Okay, look, I don’t claim to be a psychologist or anything, but you know you’re projecting what happened with Brenna onto Stevie, right?”

“I do fucking know!” I stop walking and glare at him. “And I’m fucking pissed about it because I promised Stevie I would never do anything to hurt her or make her feel unsafe.”

“So don’t.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What?”

“Don’t.” He emphasizes the word. “Be supportive and loving and wait for her to come home. You’ll know the minute she walks in the door whether or not something is off. You knew with Brenna—you just didn’t want to believe it. Not necessarily that she was cheating, but that she was unhappy. And you’ll know with Stevie too.”

“But what if I don’t?”

“You will. She’s important to you. I can see you’re falling in love with her—or are you already there?”

I don’t respond because I can’t.

I’m all twisted up inside and feel like an idiot.

“Okay, so that’s a yes,” he says, chuckling. “Relax, man. She’s crazy about you. Harper gets all the gossip through the grapevine. Stevie’s into you. Let go of the past and look to your future.”

“Why is it so hard?” I ask quietly.

He smiles. “Because nothing worth having is ever easy.”

That’s for damn sure.

I hope like hell he’s right.

* * *

Stevie’s flightdoesn’t land until late, but I’m not going to sleep until she gets here. It’s easier—and safer—for her to have a driver pick her up instead of risking being recognized at the airport, so there’s nothing for me to do but wait for her to get home.

She’s all but living here now, my bathroom overflowing with all her potions and creams and soaps. There are dresses and skirts in the closet. Panties and bras in one of the drawers.

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