Chapter Fourteen
“So when do you expect Emmett back?” Randall asked Scarlett for the second time that day. Scarlett didn’t bother to flick her gaze to him as he hovered over her desk. Instead, she gave all her attention to the emery stick she was using to file her nails—not that she was the nail-filing type or that her nails even needed filing, but the fact remained that she was a bloody wreck, and this was the only way she knew to appear cool as a cucumber.
“As I told you before, this afternoon is all he said,” she replied. This time, she did flick her gaze up to Randall, digging deep to hold every emotion in check so he wouldn’t see her freaking out, her anxiety having built from that morning’s drive in to work in the small Escort she’d purchased just the week before. The car was rusty
