Page 77 of Darling Venom
Tate.
His name stared at me from the yellow square.
Once I donated the Wizard of Oz first-edition set and handed over the donation receipt, nothing would tie me to him. I’d have no reason to see him again. My only living connection to Kellan severed.
I traced his name on the envelope.
What to do, what to do, what to do.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I darted to Reagan’s office and knocked on the glass door.
“Come in.”
I hovered behind the doorsill, half-convinced she’d sniff out the lie if I came near her. “Our normal courier is booked up through today and tomorrow. Would you like me to send it two days from now? Or I can find another courier.”
Reagan winced, reclining in her wingback chair. “The last time we tried a new courier, the package ended up in Jersey. Can you deliver it yourself? You can take an Uber and put it on the company card.”
“Of course.”
Reagan called an Uber for me on her app. I waited by the curb, trying and failing to feel guilty about the lie. Trying and failing to think about anything other than seeing Tate Marchetti again.
I’d had years to build my hate for him, and he’d unraveled it in less than a month.
If Kellan had seen me last Friday, nestled between Tate’s thighs, arms around his neck, chin resting on his shoulder, would he call me a traitor?
Duh.
If hating Tate Marchetti were an Olympic sport, Kellan would’ve medaled. He considered it a job, hobby, and lifestyle.
I’d left a thumb-sized dent in Tate’s invitation by the time the Uber pulled up to his clinic. The driver coughed a few times, attempting to kick me out of his car without getting docked a few stars. I slipped him a cash tip and crept my way to the dark oak revolving doors.
There were a lot of things I should’ve been doing—reading a manuscript in the office, clocking out of work to donate Kellan’s Wizard of Oz books, cutting ties with the brother he hated—none of which included lying to my boss and finding an excuse to visit Tate Marchetti.
But here I was, riding the elevator to his office.
And it was too late to stop.
The receptionist’s head popped up as soon as the metal doors slid open. Since I’d last visited, she’d touched up her roots, upgraded to a balayage, and traded her contacts for trendy reading glasses.
But she wore the same scowl on her face, recognition in her eyes, and a rectangular name tag that read Sylvia.
“Do you have an appointment?”
She knew I didn’t.
“Yes,” I lied through a smile, but only because I spotted Tate exiting a back room and
knew he’d intervene.
He held a clipboard tucked between his bicep and an unbuttoned doctor’s coat. His hair sat in styled waves, his fitted dress shirt bore no wrinkles, and his pants fell at a perfect quarter break. And unlike me, he looked well-rested. Unbothered.
It threw me off-balance.
It made me dislike him a little more than I already did.
He is everything Kellan hated.
My words surprised Sylvia, because she paused for a bit, fumbling at her keyboard. “I don’t see you on the schedule, Miss…”
