More Than Want You
Page 42
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To help her understand, I’m going to have to admit something so real to her. It’s one reason I don’t like talking about Griff. This fact just slaps me in the face over and over. “I did. If I put myself out for him like that and he pushes me away again, I don’t know if I could take it.”
“It’s just your pride, Maxon. It will heal.”
Damn it, will this woman not understand? “It’s my heart! He fucking broke it and he doesn’t give two shits. So now we’re enemies, and that’s it. Will you drop it?” I step back, rake my hand through my hair. “Jesus, has no one ever broken your heart? Is that why you don’t understand?”
“Yeah. Someone has. I chose to get over it. Repair the damage. Forgive and forget. Be happy again.”
Even delivered in the softest tones, I hear the rebuke in her words. They’re like a blade slicing open my chest and jimmying around my heart, creating utter carnage. I know she doesn’t mean them that way. I’m probably overreacting.
I can’t seem to stop.
“Well, you’re a better person than me. We both know that.” In my pocket, my phone buzzes, and I yank it free. Mr. Zhang is waiting at the hangar, and I’m twenty minutes away. “I have to go.”
I want to touch Keeley again but I don’t. Instead, I turn and leave, pretty sure I’m going to have a miserable fucking day.
Sometimes, I hate it when I’m right. Mr. Zhang didn’t like any of the properties I showed him on Maui. Too remote. Too relaxed. He’s looking for a party palace. Why else would he have agreed to drop four million this afternoon on an oceanfront penthouse with decor that makes a French bordello look sedate? But after island-hopping to Oahu yesterday, my pal from China finally fell in real estate love in Honolulu. I submitted the offer earlier today. For hours, we waited for the seller’s response in a bar, during which the banker got utterly shitfaced and loud. I nearly kissed the bartender when the seller accepted our terms. Afterward, we took the chopper back to Maui, and I put Zhang in a taxi back to his hotel.
I’m finally heading home.
Now that I’ve got some quiet, I wonder if Keeley missed me last night. I tried to call her, but it was late and she didn’t pick up. She texted about eight this morning to say she’d slept through my call because the spa exhausted her, and if they plucked one more thing on her body, she might punch someone. With a laugh, I told her if she was going to get into a girl fight to roll video for me because that turns me on. Keeley replied by snapping a pic of herself performing an obscene finger gesture. We may not have much in common, but I love her sense of humor.
By the time I pull up in front of my condo, I feel as if I haven’t seen her in two weeks. Anxiously, I call the spa. When the receptionist answers, I cut the engine. “Hi, this is Maxon Reed. Is Keeley Kent finished with her appointments?”
“Almost, sir. She should be ready to check out in the next ten minutes.”
Which will give me just enough time to walk over there and pay her bill. Convenient. But my cynical smirk dims. Truth is, I’m really eager to see exactly what they’ve done to Keeley. She’s a gorgeous girl in my eyes. I hope if they’ve transformed her, they’ve merely enhanced her beauty, not changed her entirely.
“I’ll be right there.”
The afternoon is quickly becoming evening as I walk the winding garden path past the main pool, then between a few buildings on the far side of the property. Behind buildings three and five, I spot the spa.
As I push my way past the front door, I enter a cool oasis of calm music, tropical tranquility, and dim lighting. The receptionist behind the counter smiles. I wonder how she sits there all day and listens to the waterfall without having to pee constantly. Not my issue, thankfully. She wears the usual severe bun that signals her efficiency and kills all hint of sexiness. As she rises in greeting, I see she’s wearing head-to-toe black, like everyone else in this place. I’ve seen livelier outfits at a funeral. Is management intending to send a message to patrons with their color scheme?
“Hello, Mr. Reed.”
What’s her name? Ashley? Annie? Avery? Something like that. I make small talk with her when I come here for the occasional massage, so I should probably know. She often flirts. I suspect she’d do me if I asked, but I’m not interested today. I’m beginning to wonder if I ever will be again. “Hi. If you’ve got the bill ready, I’ll settle it and wait for Keeley.”
“Of course.” Whatever her name is clicks around her computer. The nearby printer spits out a long list of treatments. She glances it over, then hands it to me with a grin I’m sure she intends to be professional but looks slightly manic.
Uh oh. Two full days of spa services is going to cost me a fortune.
I glance down at the total and try not to choke. Yep, expensive, as usual. I could feed an entire village in a third-world country for a year on this amount. At least the Ritz is consistent.
Grabbing a pen, I add gratuity and sign, then sink into a nearby chair to wait. They need to hurry this show up. I’m eager to clap eyes on Keeley. I’m sure she’s going to look great. But right now, I just want to be with her.
I missed her more than I thought I could.
I’m glancing at my phone and scrolling through Facebook. One of Griff’s ads comes up in my feed. I tamp down my annoyance and look through analytical eyes. Griff obviously wrote the text because the verbiage sounds exactly like him. Overall, it’s good. I’ve already toured the property he’s pushing and the post makes even me want to see this place. I wish again that I had his knack for making the emotional connection with buyers and sellers. Keeley was onto something when she helped me to better understand the Stowe heirs. I need to think more like that, about people. With emotion.
Even if the concept usually gives me hives.
“Maxon?”
Keeley. I recognize her voice. I jump to my feet, pocketing my phone, then turn to face her. And I freeze.
Oh. My. God.
The woman has haunted me since I last saw her. But this version of her is fucking glamorous. Polished. Poised. Perfect. I recognize the pale green suit that hugs her body perfectly, along with the cheetah pumps she’s wearing. Yeah, it’s definitely Keeley. So much about her now is lovely and familiar, but the trappings are all different and mind blowing.
Her hair is shorter than when she sported pink tresses. The loose, beachy curls now hang just over the tops of her shoulders. But the current color is what has my eyes popping out most. “Red?”
“It’s just your pride, Maxon. It will heal.”
Damn it, will this woman not understand? “It’s my heart! He fucking broke it and he doesn’t give two shits. So now we’re enemies, and that’s it. Will you drop it?” I step back, rake my hand through my hair. “Jesus, has no one ever broken your heart? Is that why you don’t understand?”
“Yeah. Someone has. I chose to get over it. Repair the damage. Forgive and forget. Be happy again.”
Even delivered in the softest tones, I hear the rebuke in her words. They’re like a blade slicing open my chest and jimmying around my heart, creating utter carnage. I know she doesn’t mean them that way. I’m probably overreacting.
I can’t seem to stop.
“Well, you’re a better person than me. We both know that.” In my pocket, my phone buzzes, and I yank it free. Mr. Zhang is waiting at the hangar, and I’m twenty minutes away. “I have to go.”
I want to touch Keeley again but I don’t. Instead, I turn and leave, pretty sure I’m going to have a miserable fucking day.
Sometimes, I hate it when I’m right. Mr. Zhang didn’t like any of the properties I showed him on Maui. Too remote. Too relaxed. He’s looking for a party palace. Why else would he have agreed to drop four million this afternoon on an oceanfront penthouse with decor that makes a French bordello look sedate? But after island-hopping to Oahu yesterday, my pal from China finally fell in real estate love in Honolulu. I submitted the offer earlier today. For hours, we waited for the seller’s response in a bar, during which the banker got utterly shitfaced and loud. I nearly kissed the bartender when the seller accepted our terms. Afterward, we took the chopper back to Maui, and I put Zhang in a taxi back to his hotel.
I’m finally heading home.
Now that I’ve got some quiet, I wonder if Keeley missed me last night. I tried to call her, but it was late and she didn’t pick up. She texted about eight this morning to say she’d slept through my call because the spa exhausted her, and if they plucked one more thing on her body, she might punch someone. With a laugh, I told her if she was going to get into a girl fight to roll video for me because that turns me on. Keeley replied by snapping a pic of herself performing an obscene finger gesture. We may not have much in common, but I love her sense of humor.
By the time I pull up in front of my condo, I feel as if I haven’t seen her in two weeks. Anxiously, I call the spa. When the receptionist answers, I cut the engine. “Hi, this is Maxon Reed. Is Keeley Kent finished with her appointments?”
“Almost, sir. She should be ready to check out in the next ten minutes.”
Which will give me just enough time to walk over there and pay her bill. Convenient. But my cynical smirk dims. Truth is, I’m really eager to see exactly what they’ve done to Keeley. She’s a gorgeous girl in my eyes. I hope if they’ve transformed her, they’ve merely enhanced her beauty, not changed her entirely.
“I’ll be right there.”
The afternoon is quickly becoming evening as I walk the winding garden path past the main pool, then between a few buildings on the far side of the property. Behind buildings three and five, I spot the spa.
As I push my way past the front door, I enter a cool oasis of calm music, tropical tranquility, and dim lighting. The receptionist behind the counter smiles. I wonder how she sits there all day and listens to the waterfall without having to pee constantly. Not my issue, thankfully. She wears the usual severe bun that signals her efficiency and kills all hint of sexiness. As she rises in greeting, I see she’s wearing head-to-toe black, like everyone else in this place. I’ve seen livelier outfits at a funeral. Is management intending to send a message to patrons with their color scheme?
“Hello, Mr. Reed.”
What’s her name? Ashley? Annie? Avery? Something like that. I make small talk with her when I come here for the occasional massage, so I should probably know. She often flirts. I suspect she’d do me if I asked, but I’m not interested today. I’m beginning to wonder if I ever will be again. “Hi. If you’ve got the bill ready, I’ll settle it and wait for Keeley.”
“Of course.” Whatever her name is clicks around her computer. The nearby printer spits out a long list of treatments. She glances it over, then hands it to me with a grin I’m sure she intends to be professional but looks slightly manic.
Uh oh. Two full days of spa services is going to cost me a fortune.
I glance down at the total and try not to choke. Yep, expensive, as usual. I could feed an entire village in a third-world country for a year on this amount. At least the Ritz is consistent.
Grabbing a pen, I add gratuity and sign, then sink into a nearby chair to wait. They need to hurry this show up. I’m eager to clap eyes on Keeley. I’m sure she’s going to look great. But right now, I just want to be with her.
I missed her more than I thought I could.
I’m glancing at my phone and scrolling through Facebook. One of Griff’s ads comes up in my feed. I tamp down my annoyance and look through analytical eyes. Griff obviously wrote the text because the verbiage sounds exactly like him. Overall, it’s good. I’ve already toured the property he’s pushing and the post makes even me want to see this place. I wish again that I had his knack for making the emotional connection with buyers and sellers. Keeley was onto something when she helped me to better understand the Stowe heirs. I need to think more like that, about people. With emotion.
Even if the concept usually gives me hives.
“Maxon?”
Keeley. I recognize her voice. I jump to my feet, pocketing my phone, then turn to face her. And I freeze.
Oh. My. God.
The woman has haunted me since I last saw her. But this version of her is fucking glamorous. Polished. Poised. Perfect. I recognize the pale green suit that hugs her body perfectly, along with the cheetah pumps she’s wearing. Yeah, it’s definitely Keeley. So much about her now is lovely and familiar, but the trappings are all different and mind blowing.
Her hair is shorter than when she sported pink tresses. The loose, beachy curls now hang just over the tops of her shoulders. But the current color is what has my eyes popping out most. “Red?”
