Page 10 of Hate You Up Close

Trainwreck.

That term suits me well. I think I like it.

“Well, since you'resoconcerned about my well-being,” I say smugly. “You’ll be happy to know that I’m about to have more free time on my hands. Hopefully sooner than later.”

“What do you mean?”

“After years of asking, I finally got approved to hire an assistant. Skylar’s recruiting for the position right now as we speak…” I trail off, realizing that I haven't heard from her in a few days. “Or she better be,” I grumble under my breath.

“Wow, look at you,” Zion hums, slapping a playful hand down on the table. “Climbing the corporate ladder.”

“Living the dream,” I say sarcastically, grinning as I bring a full glass of whiskey to my lips.

Zion clears his throat, looking uncomfortable as he ponders his next words.

He’s going to ask about Skylar. Because it’s totally normal that my ex-fiancée is now recruiting for my assistant position. Not weird at all.

“Is uh…Is it awkward? Working with Skylar?” he asks in a hushed tone.

Ding, ding, ding.I called it.

Is it awkward working with the woman who is now fucking my brother? No shit, Zion. What a ridiculous question.

“Eh, doesn't really matter to me,” I lie, shrugging my shoulders. “I just need her to hire someone, and hire them fast. I can barely stay afloat anymore.”

I stare off into space, thinking about the twenty different meetings I need to schedule when I get home tonight.

Zion mumbles something, but his voice is only background noise as I dig my phone from my suit jacket to check my email.

Everyone has their nervous ticks…bad habits they can’t shake. Mine is checking my email every five to ten minutes. It’s the first thing I do when I wake up in the morning and the last thing I do when I go to bed at night. It’s a source of comfort for me.

“Oh shit,” I exhale, tapping on an unread email Skylar sent me a few hours ago.

“What is it?” Zion asks, leaning across the table to get a glimpse at the screen.

“Skylar.” I slide out of the booth and straighten the lapels of my jacket. “She asked me to call her a few hours ago. Give me a minute.”

It’s too damn loud to take a call in the club, so I walk into the men’s restroom and turn the lock just to make sure no drunk ass tries to come in and piss near my Burberry suit.

God, just the smell in here makes me want to hurl, and this is what I consider acleanrestroom. How in the hell do people get off during bathroom romps? I can barely take a call in here.

I scroll through my contacts until I find Skylar’s name, press call, and bring the phone to my ear. The persistent ringing has me rolling my eyes, my already thin patience wearing thinner.

How dare she not answer her phone at eight o’clock on a Friday night?The nagging voice in my head mocks me, reminding me that other people actually have a life outside of work.

On what I assume is the last ring, Skylar’s familiar voice lulls through the speaker.

Thank God.

Ironically, I’ve never been so relieved to hear her voice.

“Elliot Thompson,” she clicks her tongue. “Making work calls on a Friday night, but can’t answer during normal business hours. Typical.”

I pace back and forth in the small bathroom.

“If I had anassistant, maybe I would have time to take mycalls during work hours,” I clap back. “But there’s only so many hours in a day.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” she replies without hesitation.