Page 96 of Almost Not Quite Engaged

“Let’s just say the second installment hasn’t arrived and the producers want a bit more.”

“Do I need to be pregnant? Will that unlock another chunk of your precious cash?” He laughs. “Or join a church?”

“I’ll figure it out. I always do. You’re doing enough. But you have to sign a waiver.”

“For what? Phone sex release?”

“Utah footage.”

“Oh, no. I’m not TV ready. I was questing.”

“You have no reason to trust me but try. You look really good.”

“You’re still looking at my tits.”

“Always.”

“I need to go to sleep.”

“Alone?”

“No, I have a couple of men lined up but needed you as a warm up, thanks.”

“Glad to help. I can always be there for an in-person demonstration.”

I can’t help but flirt. “From Copenhagen?”

“I’m always a couple of flights away.”

I roll my eyes at the sentiment because it’s too heavy in the room right now. “I’ll sleep sweetly in that thought. Enjoy Denmark and please take care, Squire.”

“You too. Goodnight, babe.” Babe? He called me babe, for real. Not part of a cover. Does he call everyone babe or is that something he now calls me? I say nothing because I’m not sure if I’m Babe or A babe.

“Sleep well, Zane.”

I hang up before I start to weave his words into something we’re not. My phone pings as I settle into the bed.

ZANE: Night night, my Kat.

I fall asleep remembering and trying to forget all the things he’s written and said in the last half hour. The last of India awaits me tomorrow. And my only plan is the Seychelles. Then maybe I tell him what I’m doing. After the Seychelles. It’s getting harder not to.

Chapter 47

I Don’t Want To Take A Piss

ZANE

Airplane

I didn’t sleep after our call. She’s running through my head all the time, and the blog and even phone sex aren’t clearing up anything. That woman is up to something and she’s weaseling her way into the fabric of my everyday. And I need to know what the fuck it means. It’s a maddening driving force pulling me into directions that are uncharted territory and I won’t do it alone. I need to know she’s being dragged under as well and that requires a face to face conversation she can’t hang up, ignore or skim.

I’m supposed to be in Copenhagen for another day and a half then Marseille. I’m going to be fucking yelled at but instead I’m on a plane to Boston.

I can’t even wrap my head around what happened last night or twenty-five days ago. Less than a month ago I loathed this woman’s black heart and today I can’t stop myself from that giddy bubbled up feeling. The one you can’t suppress when you think of someone. I’ve only had it a couple of times in my life but this scares the fuck out of me. Because it’s never been like this. This demands answers and they all lie in those maddening green eyes of hers.

I don’t have a good explanation for this. I have several bad ones. The blog started it, reading her posts at two in the morning on the pool deck, the fruity drink getting warm in my hand, that picture of her at the trailhead with my hat on and her chin tipped up like she’s daring the camera. My hat.

I need to smell her hair and argue with her about something stupid and watch her eat something she shouldn’t and hear that laugh in the same room as my body. This does not make sense. We made an arrangement. The arrangement was supposed to be simple, and this woman is far from fucking simple. I deluded myself going into it and now I’m in a middle seat without luggage because I booked this flight forty minutes before takeoff.