“I can’t believe that I ever let you talk me into coming out here,” Hazel said. “You’re nothing but a spoiled brat.”
“What you think of me doesn’t matter, Hazel. You need the money.”
“I need your money like I need to miss my period. Screw you, Damien. Screw. You.” She got up and stormed from the restaurant, turning heads with her departure.
12
Hazel
“I’m sorry, Miss McCutcheon, but I can’t assist you.” The dude in the suit pushed my portfolio and business plan back across the desk toward me.
I’d waited for over an hour to see Mr. Banks—typical name for the guy who’d decided to reject me for a loan—and it was all for nothing. I fought back despair. “Please, you have to help me. I know that I can make this work. I can—”
“Miss McCutcheon,” he said. “You have no capital to speak of, no assets, and the property you’re interested in buying isn’t currently for sale, from what I can see.”
“Yes, but I know the guy who owns it.” Regrettable fact. “And I could get him to sell it to me.” Could I though?
“I’m sorry,” Banks said. “It’s not happening.”
I pressed my lips together, holding back fury and pain. Talking to Damien Saturday night had forced my hand. I couldn’t possibly do what he’d asked, but I wouldn’t give up on my dream of running the café. My dad’s café.
“Please,” I said, one last time. “Please. You have to help me.”
Banks simply shook his head and sat back in his chair.
The consultation was over, and while he probably didn’t want to be a dick about it, the rejection still stung. I collected my portfolio and left his office, my cheeks burning bright red. The guy who was next in line gave me a sympathetic look that only made my blood boil even harder.
Outside, I got into my car and sat there for five minutes, fuming.
In all honesty, I shouldn’t have come to talk to the guy today, but I’d spent the whole of Sunday poring over my business plan, fueled by coffee and anger at Damien’s bullshit proposition. A frustrated shriek bubbled up inside me, but I didn’t let it out.
Of course he was a user.
What had I expected? He’d slept with me and left, and I’d fully wanted to put that night behind me and forget he existed again. As I’d done for the past fourteen damn years. But Damien wouldn’t let that happen.
I wasn’t important enough to him to believe he’d come back because he wanted to upset me or torture me or whatever.
It was because he wanted something. Money from Daddy Dearest. Spoiled as ever. And selfish. This was all about Damien.
And how shitty was it that I had even considered his proposition for a second there, wearing that ridiculous lowcut dress that he’d ogled me in?
You considered it because it would make everything easy. You could get the café back. You could help Dad with his hospital bills. You could…
“Stop,” I said to myself.
Thankfully, none of the people walking by seemed to notice me talking to myself. I pulled out of the parking space and drove through the city, heading home and barely seeing anything but the road in front of me.
I wasn’t considering it. I wasn’t.
Pretending to be his fiancée? Out of the question. I didn’t want to think what that would entail. I wasn’t about to become Damien Woods’ sex toy.
I arrived back at the house, my stomach practically buried in the tips of my toes, and stormed up the front steps. I let myself in, trying not to think about how, just a few days ago, I’d been making out with Damien on this very step. How he’d nearly taken me right here.
My throat closed up, and I choked on angry tears. I forced myself to calm down—never let a man get in your head—and squared my shoulders.
“Dad?” I called out.
Mr. Piddlywump padded down the hall, his little bell ringing merrily. I scratched behind his ears and dropped my keys, the doomed business portfolio and my purse on the front table. “Hey, cutie,” I whispered and kissed Piddly on his ginger head. “How are you today?”
He meowed at me and bumped his head into my palm. Piddly was the friendliest cat I’d ever met, but it hadn’t always been that way. We’d rescued him from a shelter when he’d been emaciated and timid. Time and care had healed his emotional wounds. That was how it worked for cats, anyway.
“Dad,” I called again, straightening. “I’m home. Are you hungry?” He hadn’t been eating much lately and it made me nervous. “Dad?”
Silence, apart from the blare of the TV. My heart pitter-pattered in my throat.
“Dad?” I hurried into the living room.
He was in his chair, green-eyed gaze on the screen.
“Dad.”
“Oh, hey Nut,” he said and paused the channel. “How was your meeting?”
“It was… fine,” I replied, brow wrinkling. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
“Hmm? No, sorry, I was watching Blue Planet. Amazing. Absolutely amazing.”
“Right, OK.” I nodded slowly, dragging my teeth over my bottom lip. My anger had simmered down, at least—being around my father helped. He’d always had a calming presence. He was the rock of our family. “I’m glad you’re enjoying the series.”
“You bet your ears I am,” he said, pinching his fingers together. His little joke—as a kid, he’d have pinched my ears while saying it. “Speaking of which, have you heard from that Damien again? I expected he’d come by and take you on another date.”
“It wasn’t a date,” I replied, slowly, my anger rushing back. I had to relax! “It was just two old… friends catching up.” Man, it was difficult to say “friends” while thinking about Damien.
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“Just don’t want you to close yourself off, Nut.” Piddlywump jumped into his lap, and he scratched the cat’s furry head, gently. “Damien’s a good, successful man.
