Page 26 of Love Under the Microscope
“Maybe if this were a rom-com movie.”
I don’t want her alone with that guy. What she’s said about Carrington tells me he’s bad news, maybe even a sociopath or worse, and I don’t want her to get hurt. Either physically or emotionally.
A warning sound blares inside my head, making me lean away from her as if a few inches will change anything.
My concern has nothing to do with her personally and more to do with our deal—interviewing Mr. Z. I mean, why else would I care what happens to her? Well, other than being a decent human being, which is something I haven’t been these past years. For some strange reason, Zelda Lowe brings it out in me.
“I may not be a pharmaceutical CEO, but if we play this right, we could definitely make Nigel jealous,” I add.
A Cheshire cat-like grin spreads across Zelda’s face. “I bet we could. Dancing together. Toasting with champagne. Sipping our drinks coyly. I like this plan.”
My relief is palpable. I’m not in the same shape I used to be in, but I could keep Zelda safe if Nigel threatened her. “Good, then that’s what we’ll do.”
Her gaze runs the length of me. “You’ll need to dress up.”
“I have a suit.”
She tilts her head as if pondering my idea. “I’ll get you a tuxedo. Nigel will take you more seriously then.”
“Why won’t he take me more seriously if I’m not in a tux?”
Zelda chews on her lower lip and grimaces. “You’re handsome, don’t get me wrong. I’m sure lots of women call you hot. But—”
Against my better judgment, I have to ask. “What?”
“You’re a little bit … I’m not sure how to say this, but—”
“Rip off the bandage.”
She blows out a breath. “You’re shabby.”
“Shabby?” My mouth gapes. I’ve been called a lot of things, but shabby isn’t one of them. She must be more pissed off over my dealings with Zentello in the past than she’s let on. That’s why she’s calling me out. “Really?”
“Sorry, not sorry. As I said, you’re attractive, but those pants you wore at the coffee shop were old. I’m not the most observant of people, but even I could see the hem was frayed around the bottom.”
Oh. I hadn’t thought she was serious, but it makes me think back to what I’d been wearing when we met, and she’s right. The pants are old and frayed. “Yes, but there’s a reason I wore them. I walked my neighbor’s dog earlier, and who takes a dog to the dog park in their best pants?”
“Is the suit newer than the pants?”
I try to remember the last time I wore the suit. Shit. I’ve had it for years. I don’t have many occasions where I need to wear a suit when a sportscoat will do. “Not exactly new.”
“Then you need a tux. This will be the best revenge.”
I stiffen. “Is that what you’re after? Revenge?”
“Oh God, no.” She sucks in a breath. “Not as in physically hurting someone kind of revenge, but I’ll be honest, I love a good revenge movie. There’s nothing better than the wronged wife getting back at the cheating scum of a husband by hurting him. I watched a film once where the wife changed her appearance with cosmetic surgery. He had no idea it was her and asked her out on a date. She gets him back to her place and then, just when they’re about to do the deed, she pulls out this huge, and I mean huge, knife and chops off his penis.”
I wince. Even though that happened in a movie and not in real life, it takes me a moment to recover. Maybe Zelda is a psychopath. “You don’t want to do that to Nigel, do you?”
Zelda shudders. “No, I hate the sight of blood, which is a little weird since I work at a pharmaceutical company that uses people’s blood in our trials.”
“It’s not your fear of blood that worries me. It’s the thought of you enjoying the idea of cutting off someone’s dick that’s a red flag.”
“You don’t need to worry about that. Your dick is safe around me. And the most revenge I can deal with is dancing with you in front of my ex.” She grins, full of pride, seeming pleased with our new plan, or maybe it’s herself. “This is going to be so much fun.”
Fun isn’t the adjective I’d use. I sure hope she’s telling the truth about her level of revenge because she’s not the only one who doesn’t like blood.
Two nights later, I’m wearing a new tuxedo, standing outside the gala’s entrance, and questioning every decision I’ve made up to this point. Sure, I look hot, and women are glancing my way, but I feel like a penguin, an idiotic penguin wearing uncomfortable shoes. That’s why I keep reminding myself that I’m the one who told her I should come. But the doubts and regrets keep growing exponentially. As if there’s any correlation to that, my shoes seem to be getting tighter. Although Zelda looks fabulous.
