Dr. D Spills the Tea

Unwelcome

There was a knock at the door.

With a slow blink, I deduced two things quickly: 1) I had fallen asleep on my couch last night since that was where I was now waking up first thing this morning and 2) my phone must have died. After all, I thought groggily, my alarm hadn’t gone off.

My alarm.

Why had I set an alarm again?

Another knock at the door.

Sitting upright, I stumbled to my feet, moving across the apartment in just a few steps, pulling my door open to find the last person I wanted to see standing in front of me. “George?” He promptly stepped into my apartment as if he owned the place, his head moving on a swivel like he was looking for somebody. “George, I did not invite you in.”

“Diana,” he said briskly, turning to level me with a sharp look. “We need to talk.”

My eyes shifted from him to my dead phone lying on the coffee table and back to him. “You need to leave,” I stated, aware that my voice shook when I said it. Was it my nerves? Ignoring the sweat building on my palms, I pushed the door open wider, gesturing to it.

“You’re being ridiculous, Diana.”

The condescension in his tone certainly matched the audacity he must have had to conjure up to be standing in my apartment demanding even a moment of my time. “This is ridiculous, George. You’re trespassing.”

“I’m visiting my fiancée.”

Truly, his audacity was astonishing at this point. “Your ex-fiancée,” I corrected. “The one who is leasing this space. The one who wants you to leave.” My tone was firm, precise—still, I found my eyes falling to my phone once more. That dead, useless thing could have easily been a saving grace, had I not neglected it last night.

If my alarm had gone off, I imagined I would have left by now.

With a slow blink, I quickly recalled why I’d set that alarm in the first place and was immediately filled with immense regret at having forgotten to plug the thing in. Right this moment I could be having breakfast with Brent but because of my lapse in judgement, I was stuck here being harassed by my ex who was now half leaning, half sitting on the back of my couch, looking oddly at ease in my space.

It was a frightening thing for a woman to face an unwanted male in her space.

Were we somewhere more public, with more eyes, tearing him to pieces wouldn’t seem such a daunting task but we were alone and the power dynamic wasn’t in my favor. Even if he hadn’t meant to be outwardly threatening, there was no doubt that he was well aware that I was physically smaller than him in size. Worse, I was almost certain he’d noticed my phone and positioned himself directly between me and it.

Perhaps, I observed, he didn’t realize it was dead.

Perhaps, I thought nervously, it was worse that he didn’t know it was dead and chose to block me from accessing it.

Something told me not to approach him.

Something, almost a nagging feeling, told me it was best to simply remove myself from the premises. If he wouldn’t leave, I would. Glancing toward the suitcase and carry on, the ones I’d packed just last night, I wondered briefly if I should forgo my phone and make a grab at the rest of my important items.

“I just want to talk.”

“No thank you.” Curt, my answer was automatic.

As he stood, I took a pointed step backwards, gesturing again to the door.

He didn’t want to talk. Normal people talk on the phone first. Set up a meeting. They don’t just barge into your space, make themselves eerily comfortable, and then demand that you listen to them. This wouldn’t be a conversation. He meant to berate me.

Intimidate me.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he tsked. “We’ve been together for years and now, all of a sudden, you look at me like some kind of leper.”

“It’s not all of a sudden,” I stated coldly. Leave it to George Whittiker to try to smooth over something heinous with an oversimplified explanation and what-have-you shrug. “And a leper would be preferable at this point. Leprosy is treatable, willful ignorance is not.”

“Ouch, Diana. You’ve always had a way with words, haven’t you?”

Stiffly, I watched him take a step toward me.

Everything told me to take a step backwards, but my pride wouldn’t allow it. Straightening my back, I leveled him with a hard look and, for just a moment, I saw his calm expression waver. “Diana, I don’t like us like this.” His voice softened a bit. He’d realized having a hard edge to his tone wouldn’t work, that intimidation would only push me further away—so now he was treading lightly, I knew. I noticed the second step forward, well aware of this tactic. He’d used it before, to calm me when I’d made it clear that I wasn’t happy with how he’d gone about proposing to me so publicly. Only then, I’d been naïve. Then, I hadn’t seen his actions for what they really are: Manipulation. “Diana, I know I’ve made mistakes but we—”

“There is no we.”

“Diana—”

“Stop repeating my name, Whittiker.” The way he was saying my name came off as scolding, condescending. I knew psychologically using ones’ name repeatedly in an argument was meant as a way to intimidate or invalidate that person. I had used that method many a time in court room disputes and I sure as hell wouldn’t let it slide here.

Another step closer, I saw him reach out—to touch me? I jerked backwards, out of his reach, feeling an ugly emotion rising quickly to the surface. Would he grab at me? My back bumped into the door and I felt him closing in on me, like a predator going in for the kill. Glaring up at him, I felt his hand slip to my arm and slapped it away, gritting my teeth against the expletive threatening to escape my throat. Who the actual f**k did this prick think he was? “Di—”

“Back up!” It was a volatile hiss. Reaching, trying to touch my cheek—I stomped hard on his foot with my heel, winning a pained hiss from the jerk who bent at the hip, reaching for his foot, and, for just a moment, I thought about kneeing him in the face. “You come here uninvited,” I hissed, “and refuse to leave despite making me incredibly uncomfortable and—"

“Diana.” The voice was deep, different. Glancing over my shoulder, I blinked at the familiar figure in the hall. He held his phone up with a sheepish expression. “I tried to call.”

The relief I felt at the sight of Brent was groundbreaking.

“My phone died.” It was the truth.

His eyes shifted to George and his jaw tightened, expression shifting to something that looked a lot less friendly. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No,” I said, aware of how bad this might look. I was still in my pajamas, slightly disheveled from sleep, and George was inside of my apartment. “No, you have perfect timing,” I pressed, tone turning clipped as I stated, “Whittiker was just leaving.”

“Brent Holdings,” George said, offering a chipper smile. His usual mask was in place.

“George Whittiker.” Brent’s voice was icy but he, too, wore a careful smile.

“I’ve heard a bit about you,” George went on, offering his hand.

Even with his smile still intact, Brent sounded annoyed as he took George’s hand, giving a firm shake. “Good things, I hope.” I glanced between the two of them, noticing Brent’s widened smile and the way George flexed his hand, expression pained as he took it back from the brute. Had he purposely crushed his hand?

“Yes, well,” George said, playing at checking his watch, “I really enjoyed catching up with you, Diana. It’s unfortunate I have another commitment to attend to.”

“I, too, have another commitment,” I stated, glancing toward Brent pointedly. His return smirk and wink made it sound a lot more provocative than our meeting actually was. I wondered if he wasn’t taking lessons from Theo on how to torture my ex. “You can come in,” I murmured, only slightly surprised by how quickly Brent stepped into the doorway. To George, I simply gave a brisk, “Out.” I didn’t even bother looking at his expression and if he said anything else, I wasn’t listening. George had just barely stepped of range of the door before I swung it shut after him, locking it.

He was outside of my space now.

Releasing a shaky breath, I raked my hand through my hair, aware that I looked a complete mess and that Brent hadn’t budged from where he was standing just a foot away from me.

“Is he harassing you, Sweets?”

Licking my dry lips, I murmured, “Why? Do you know a good lawyer I could talk to?”

I expected him to chuckle or c***k a joke. Instead, I felt his hand slip to my shoulder, squeezing gently. “Should I have beat him up for you?”

The thought alone was enough to bring a small smile to my face. Staring down at my bare feet, well aware of my gaudy outfit, I let out a nervous chuckle. “Really now, are you a lawyer of a gangster?”

“It would be a clean-cut case of self-defense, Diana.”

Glancing over my shoulder, I took in the gleam in his dark eyes, the tightness in his jaw, and it dawned on me that he was serious. Offering an amused smile, I just shook my head. “No wonder you seem to get along well with Theodore.”

Brent pursed his lips. “Is it okay that I came?”

It was . . . odd, I hated to admit. Odd that he showed up, that he knew which apartment was mine. Odd, yes, but I had no doubt in my mind that he’d been given specific instructions from a businessman with an agenda who likes to be thorough. Turning to face Brent, I gave him a stern look, aware that we’d have to nip this little dilemma in the bud now if we were ever going to successfully work together. “Are you planning on being my partner or Theodore Blackwell’s?” Taking a step closer, into his space, I felt him tense, even as he maintained careful eye contact. “You were on the same flight as me.” The statement was an outright accusation.

Brent didn’t miss a beat. “Coincidence.”

“Your number was given to Audrey as an emergency contact.”

“Blackwell must’ve known I was in town,” he countered.

“You came to the office in seven minutes—”

“You timed it?”

My eyes narrowed automatically. “Don’t change the subject.”

Brent gave a slight nod. “I came because you called.”

“Audrey called,” I corrected, realizing I’d leaned closer as I was grilling my would-be partner, that we were nearly nose to nose. Carefully, I retreated a few inches. “You came here.”

“I was worried about you,” he admitted, frowning down at me. His expression reminded me of the time I got sick in college and missed a few classes. “It’s not like you to flake out on a commitment. I thought something must have happened.”

I went to ask him what could possibly have happened to hold me up but stopped myself, aware that something had happened, that it was wrong of me to complain about him intervening on such a horrendously uncomfortable situation. Instead, I stuck to my original point: “And who gave you my address?”

It was the who that mattered.

Who was passing him information.

Pulling the strings.

He hesitated.

That was all the answer I needed.

“So I’m going to ask you again,” I said, gazing up at him seriously. “Who is it that you plan on partnering with? Me or Blackwell?”