The Singles by Emily Snow Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Emily Snow
get my address?”
“So, is it?” he teased. “Jealousy, I mean. A simple yes or no will work.”
I’d been in Oliver’s presence only once in my adult life, and I could already say that, without a doubt, there was no such thing as simple when it came to that man. Squeezing my eyes shut, I gave him a few more seconds to respond before I repeated, “How did you get my address, Oliver?”
When he addressed me, his voice had lowered to a seductive whisper. “We’ve already gone over this, Lizzie. I’m not fucking Dora. She’s not my only connection.”
“Then who is?”
“I didn’t intend to piss you off.”
Frowning, I rested my elbows on my desk. His words would be so much more believable if I wasn’t one hundred percent certain he was grinning at the moment.
“Avoiding my question isn’t exactly helping that.” I massaged tiny circles into my right temple. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?” When he responded with another chuckle, I questioned, “And what will happen if I go down to Dora’s office and ask her if she gave you my address?”
“Then I’d likely receive a very angry call from her. She’d ask me the same questions you’re asking, she’d threaten to tell my mother to which I’d tell her to go—”
“Since you’re obviously not going to enlighten me,” I enunciated each syllable for emphasis, “should I return the gift card to the address on the Manning Hotel Group envelope or do you want me to leave it at the security desk here?”
He was speechless for a few seconds, and then he said in the most serious tone I’d heard him use yet, “I’m not taking it back, Lizzie.”
“You will if I refuse to accept it.”
“You’re refusing a thousand-dollar gift card?”
I nearly dropped the receiver. “A thousand—” I took a deep breath. God, was he that far out of touch with reality? “Why the hell would you send me that much? It’s an iPhone, not a—”
“I know what it is, and I looked up the price. Since I didn’t know the model, I added some padding. You’re not going to return it to me.”
Padding my ass. “I don’t want it.”
“Then give it to someone else. Because if you do return it to me, I’ll personally show up with it next time.”
“You wouldn’t make it past the doorman,” I said, which was a lie because though the presence of a doorman was one of the aspects that had helped me decide on my Marina del Rey apartment, I’d yet to see one on duty. Still, Oliver didn’t know that. I moved the checkerboard paperweight off his letter. Fuming, I jerked the first desk drawer open and swept it all—envelope and gift card included—inside. “Did you treat your mom’s last assistant like this?”
“Honestly, I don’t even recall the woman’s name. We maybe said a couple words to each other. I never asked her to dinner. And I never thought about what she’d look like with my sheets tangled beneath her after a five minute conversation.”
As I let his words tumble around my brain, my throat went dry. “I see.”
“Then you’re saying yes,” he said confidently, and when I closed my eyes, I could easily picture him, sitting in his office, leaned back with a satisfied smirk playing on his full lips. He thought he’d won, but he was wrong.
Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t go to dinner—or anywhere involving sheets—with Oliver.
He wasn’t a part of any of my plans.
I couldn’t want anything to do with him.
Suddenly desperate to put a close to the conversation, I sighed. “Look, Oliver,” I started, but my eyes jerked open in surprise when the line went dead. Confused, I twisted toward the keypad. My gaze landed on a manicured finger pressed on the hook and my heart dropped.
Oh God.
I followed the finger to a delicately boned hand, an Omega watch, and up to a muscular yet feminine arm. My eyes wandered over the blue, white, and gray colorblock sheath dress that Margaret—at fifty-six years old—pulled off
“So, is it?” he teased. “Jealousy, I mean. A simple yes or no will work.”
I’d been in Oliver’s presence only once in my adult life, and I could already say that, without a doubt, there was no such thing as simple when it came to that man. Squeezing my eyes shut, I gave him a few more seconds to respond before I repeated, “How did you get my address, Oliver?”
When he addressed me, his voice had lowered to a seductive whisper. “We’ve already gone over this, Lizzie. I’m not fucking Dora. She’s not my only connection.”
“Then who is?”
“I didn’t intend to piss you off.”
Frowning, I rested my elbows on my desk. His words would be so much more believable if I wasn’t one hundred percent certain he was grinning at the moment.
“Avoiding my question isn’t exactly helping that.” I massaged tiny circles into my right temple. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?” When he responded with another chuckle, I questioned, “And what will happen if I go down to Dora’s office and ask her if she gave you my address?”
“Then I’d likely receive a very angry call from her. She’d ask me the same questions you’re asking, she’d threaten to tell my mother to which I’d tell her to go—”
“Since you’re obviously not going to enlighten me,” I enunciated each syllable for emphasis, “should I return the gift card to the address on the Manning Hotel Group envelope or do you want me to leave it at the security desk here?”
He was speechless for a few seconds, and then he said in the most serious tone I’d heard him use yet, “I’m not taking it back, Lizzie.”
“You will if I refuse to accept it.”
“You’re refusing a thousand-dollar gift card?”
I nearly dropped the receiver. “A thousand—” I took a deep breath. God, was he that far out of touch with reality? “Why the hell would you send me that much? It’s an iPhone, not a—”
“I know what it is, and I looked up the price. Since I didn’t know the model, I added some padding. You’re not going to return it to me.”
Padding my ass. “I don’t want it.”
“Then give it to someone else. Because if you do return it to me, I’ll personally show up with it next time.”
“You wouldn’t make it past the doorman,” I said, which was a lie because though the presence of a doorman was one of the aspects that had helped me decide on my Marina del Rey apartment, I’d yet to see one on duty. Still, Oliver didn’t know that. I moved the checkerboard paperweight off his letter. Fuming, I jerked the first desk drawer open and swept it all—envelope and gift card included—inside. “Did you treat your mom’s last assistant like this?”
“Honestly, I don’t even recall the woman’s name. We maybe said a couple words to each other. I never asked her to dinner. And I never thought about what she’d look like with my sheets tangled beneath her after a five minute conversation.”
As I let his words tumble around my brain, my throat went dry. “I see.”
“Then you’re saying yes,” he said confidently, and when I closed my eyes, I could easily picture him, sitting in his office, leaned back with a satisfied smirk playing on his full lips. He thought he’d won, but he was wrong.
Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t go to dinner—or anywhere involving sheets—with Oliver.
He wasn’t a part of any of my plans.
I couldn’t want anything to do with him.
Suddenly desperate to put a close to the conversation, I sighed. “Look, Oliver,” I started, but my eyes jerked open in surprise when the line went dead. Confused, I twisted toward the keypad. My gaze landed on a manicured finger pressed on the hook and my heart dropped.
Oh God.
I followed the finger to a delicately boned hand, an Omega watch, and up to a muscular yet feminine arm. My eyes wandered over the blue, white, and gray colorblock sheath dress that Margaret—at fifty-six years old—pulled off