Page 85 of Forty, Flirty & Fall Inn

I hang up and sit in the parking garage, engine running, trying to push down the rage that threatens to consume me.

Kevin saw the article.Kevin knows about Sage.

The last time Kevin knew about someone I cared about, he take a demolition hammer to my life.

My phone buzzes with a text from Sage.

Hope the meeting went okay.Buttercup ate your shoe after all.I'll buy you new ones.Also, I miss you already.How dumb is that?

Not dumb at all, I think.

But maybe dangerous.

Because I'm realizing that I've let myself get distracted again.

Let myself care again.

And if there's one thing Kevin taught me, it's that everything I care about can be taken away.

My phone rings again—Daniella with another crisis—and I push the thought aside.

I have a company to save, bugs to fix, ambassadors to apologize to.

The rest—Sage, Kevin, this feeling that I'm standing on the edge of another catastrophe—will have to wait.

17

PRODUCTIVITY PLUMMETS

SAGE

Three days later, the week that started with such promise—Luke in my bed, his warmth, his laugh, the way he looked at me like I was his favorite meal—is now going to shit.

Probably, because we’ve barely said ten words to each other since, and now I'm standing in my kitchen wearing his too-big Sterling Security t-shirt and trying not to feel like a one-night stand.

"He had a legitimate emergency," I tell Buttercup, who's somehow escaped her pen again and is currently investigating my trash can."An ambassador was held hostage by his security system.That's a real thing that happened."

Buttercup extracts what looks like yesterday's coffee filter and begins munching it thoughtfully.

"You're right," I continue."It does sound fake.Like something you'd make up when fleeing a regrettable hookup."

Except it wasn't regrettable.At least not for me.

The way Luke touched me.The things he whispered.

How he held me after like I was something he was afraid to lose.

Nothing about that was regrettable.

But Luke was right.It was scary as hell.

My phone rings, the caller ID showing a number that I’m all too familiar with.

Shit.

First National Bank of Seattle.

Smoothing my suddenly sweaty fingertips against my shirt, I answer.