"You wanna be smart?" he asked.
No, I wantedher.
But a girl like that, would she want me?
No. She wouldn't.
I was a first-class fuck-up. She was a rich girl, slumming out of pity. Funny, it hadn't seemed that way at the time. But did it matter? I'd die before putting her in danger a second time. Because the way I saw it, I owed her my life.
"You listening?" Sammy asked.
I might have nodded, but I couldn’t be sure.
As the fog rolled in, Sammy's voice carried through the mist. "Do yourself a favor. Like I said, forget her."
So I tried. Not for my sake. For hers.
Chapter 8
Now, she was my neighbor – a fact I was trying to forget. She hated me. And she was nothing like the girl I remembered.
Forget her.
"Excuse me?" Brittney said.
We were standing in my gourmet kitchen. Brittney and Amber – dressed way too fine for a Friday night barbecue – were leaning over the granite countertop, showing lots of cleavage in their slinky black dresses.
I was dressed in jeans and marinating steaks. I looked up. "What?"
Brittney frowned. "Forget who?"
Great. So now, I was muttering to myself? Damn it. That girl – Chloe – was messing with my mind. "No one." I shoved aside the marinade. "Pour us some wine, will ya?"
Brittney's lips formed a pout. "But you never answered my question."
"Forget it," I told her. "Business stuff."
It wasn't far-fetched. When it came to business, I was busy as hell. Endorsements, events, merchandizing deals – they were piling up, and I'd been too distracted to do them justice.
Even tonight, this whole thing was a mistake. I'd only invited Brittney and Amber to avoid a scene in front of Chloe. Now I was stuck entertaining them for how long? An hour? Two?
Shit.
Maybe I should pop the steaks in the microwave, zap them for five minutes, and call it good.
My stomach roiled at the thought.
Amber pushed away from the counter and stood, looking around my kitchen. "Something smells good." She giggled. "You didn't do all of this for us, did you?"
I didn't do anything. My housekeeper had thrown together some potato dish and put it in the oven on her way out the door. She'd also left a salad in the fridge and cheesecake wedges on fancy plates, topped with something she called a raspberry drizzle.
I shook my head. Drizzle. What the hell?
"It wasn't me," I told them. "It was the housekeeper."
Brittney was nodding. "My mom has a housekeeper too. Three of them, in fact."
I gave her a look. "Three?"