The Casanova (The Miles High Club Book 3): Chapter 2

I pack up my desk with haste—I want to get far from my computer as quickly as possible. I close it down and with one last look around my office, I head to the elevator, hit the button with force, and exhale heavily.

I’m rattled: it’s rare that a woman gives me a physical reaction anymore. Lately I’ve been struggling with attraction issues, nobody seems to be doing it for me, no matter how beautiful they are, and I have no idea why. Perhaps it’s the fact that I’ve dated some of the most beautiful, extraordinary women in the world, and yet, still. I haven’t found what I’m looking for. Perhaps my brothers are right about my standards being unrealistically high.

But, a rock-hard boner from an employee I despise, Kathryn Landon.

Just fucking no.

I march out of the elevator and into the lobby, and see Jameson, Tristan, and Christopher waiting out on the curb for me. Jay and Christopher are looking at something on Jameson’s phone, deep in conversation.

“We going?” I snap impatiently. “Or what?”

Tristan looks up. “We’re waiting for you, dick. What do you think?”

I roll my eyes as I run my hand through my hair. “Drinks?”

“Yeah,” Jay mutters.

We turn the corner and begin to walk, and Tristan digs his phone out of his pocket; his eyes narrow when he sees the name on the screen.

“Who is it?” I ask.

“Malcolm, my neighbor at home.” He answers it. “Hi Malcolm.”

He listens as we walk and then he narrows his eyes at me and gives a subtle shake of his head.

“What?” I mouth.

“Harrison,” he mouths.

I chuckle. Tristan’s middle son is sending him grey.

Wild as a bear.

“Okay, thanks for letting me know, Malcolm, I’ll take care of it from here.” He listens. “No, I appreciate you not calling Claire, she has her hands full with the girls,” he says. “Thanks again.” He hangs up and immediately dials a number. “I’m going to kill this fucking kid with a smile on my face,” he mutters under his breath.

I smile as I walk along and listen.

“Harrison,” he barks. “Do you mind telling me why Malcolm just called to tell me that you were speeding down our street late last night? Said you were going way over the speed limit.”

He listens.

“Listen,” he barks. “I spoke to you about this only last week. You are driving way too fast for someone who only just got their license and I’m not putting up with it.” He listens again. “Don’t give me that bullshit. Why would Malcolm make this up?” He rolls his eyes in disgust. “Malcolm is not trying to get you into trouble. No, I warned you. You’ve lost your car for a month.”

He listens again, his face murderous.

I chuckle and turn to see Jay and Christopher trailing behind us, still looking at a phone. “What are you two doing?” I snap.

“Looking for something,” Chris replies. He gestures at Tristan. “Who’s he yelling at?”

“One guess.” I sigh.

Jameson smirks. “What did Harry do now?”

“Speeding.”

“Hand your keys over to your mother right now, young man . . . or I am getting on the first flight home,” Tristan growls. “Do you understand me!”

He listens again.

“This may come as a shock to you, Harrison, but you are not invincible,” he snaps. “You’re going to cause an accident or, heaven forbid, kill yourself, and I’m not having it. Hand the damn keys over.”

“Dramatic bitch,” Jameson says as he rolls his eyes.

I laugh; watching Tristan navigate rebellious teenagers might just be my favorite pastime.

Tristan hangs up and stuffs his phone in his pocket, fuming mad. “That fucking kid, every single time I go away he gets into shit.” He punches his hand into his fist.

We walk into a bar and take a seat at the back; the waitress approaches us. “What will it be?”

“I’ll have a Blue Label Scotch please,” Tristan replies way too fast. “Actually, make it a double.”

“I’ll have a Corona.” I smile; nobody riles Tristan up like Harry does.

“Same,” Christopher replies.

“Make that three,” Jameson says.

Christopher laughs as they see something on Jameson’s phone, and then they pass it over to me.

“What’s this?” I ask as I take the phone from them. I look at the screen and see a photo of myself and frown as I try to make sense of it. “What is this?”

“This dating app is using your photograph.” Christopher smirks.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I snap. “Surely anyone with half a brain knows that I would never go on a dating app.”

“Well, you look pretty and they’re just using your image to hook up with chicks.” Tristan smiles. “However, if they really wanted to pull the chicks they should have used my photo.”

I scroll through the app angrily. “Where do I report this shit? I want this taken down immediately.”

“There should be some kind of info or admin section,” Christopher says as our drinks arrive. The boys fall into conversation and I keep flicking through the app as I look for a contact page where I can report this piece of shit. I’m scrolling through when something catches my eye, the ugliest cat I have ever seen, fat and hairy with bulging eyes. Who the fuck would use that as a profile picture on a dating app?

My eyes roam over the profile and the name Pinkie Leroo.

Pinkie Leroo. I frown. What kind of name is that?

I read her ad.

Below-average appearance . . . who says that?

Taxidermies . . . She stuffs dead animals for a living? Who is this freak? I’ve officially heard it all.

I can’t believe that people actually find dates on this website . . . How?

I get a vision of a pasty-white, pink-haired woman sitting on a couch with twelve cats, surrounded by stuffed animal corpses, and I cringe.

Good grief.

I read on.

I’m looking for someone who is only one color, but not one size. Stuck at the bottom, yet easily flies. Present in sun, but not in rain.

Doing no harm, but feeling no pain.

Oh please. I roll my eyes.

I screenshot a picture of the profile that has been stolen from me and I send it to myself to deal with later.

It’s late, after dinner and drinks with the boys, and I’m back in my apartment, unwinding. The moonlight streams through the window and I sip my Scotch and sit back in my armchair.

I stare at the colors, the way they fade into the darkness. The beams of light that filter down from the heavens.

I do this often, sit here late at night and inhale the beauty of the painting on my wall.

I read the title:

Fated

What was she thinking about when she painted this?

A possession, a situation. What was fated?

A person?

I lift the glass to my lips and feel the heat as the amber fluid slides down my throat.

Harriet Boucher . . . the woman I am enamored with, a woman I don’t even know. As strange as it sounds, I feel like I do know her.

There’s an honesty to the brushstrokes, a deeper connection to her emotion, something I don’t feel from other paintings. It’s the weirdest thing and something that I can’t quite explain.

Looking at Harriet’s paintings is like looking into her soul.

Breathtaking.

I smile as I imagine the older woman; I know she’s beautiful, perhaps not physically any longer, but definitely spiritually . . . emotionally.

She’s French from what I’ve heard and only recently came onto the scene. Harriet Boucher is an artist that I follow, I’ve got all of her paintings apart from three. There are only thirty in circulation, she’s a recluse and nobody knows who she is—there are only whispers.

I only have interest in the finest, most unique pieces of art. I’ve spent millions of dollars and my collection is one of the best in the world.

But Harriet is the queen; she’s the one whose work I chase.

I visualize her in a quaint French country town, painting outdoors on an easel. I wonder how many years ago she painted this and at what stage in her life she was at?

Was she young or old, in love?

And who was fated, the love of her life . . . and their child?

I exhale heavily as I stare at my beloved painting. I’m going to look deeper into this, I have this need to know who she is.

I own twenty-seven of her paintings, have spent a fortune, and yet the hunger to meet her still eats at me.

Why . . . I don’t know.

What I do know is that I don’t want to be thinking about Kathryn Landon, I need a distraction.

I’m going to make some calls on Monday to try and find out more.

I have to, it isn’t even a choice anymore. I need to know the person who affects me so deeply . . . if only just to tell her so.

I open my phone and am reminded of the fake profile on that cheap and nasty dating app.

It’s misleading, I have to get it taken down. I go to search on the app and it won’t let me past the front page unless I join and make a profile.

I roll my eyes in disgust. Fuck’s sake . . . what is this shit?

I lean on my hand as I watch the red skirt twirl, the way her hips move, the long legs, the sexuality of the whole package . . . I’ve replayed this security footage more than I care to admit, maybe on the hour. I can’t stop watching it, again and again.

It’s a guilty pleasure, the ultimate kink in porn.

Although I would like to, I can’t deny it, Kathryn Landon turns me on.

A knock sounds at my door and I quickly minimize the screen. “Yes,” I call.

Christopher puts his head around the door. “I’m going downstairs, want to come for a walk?”

“Where to?”

“IT.”

My eyebrows rise. “IT?”

“Yeah, I have to check a few details with Kathryn on that report.”

I’m standing before I have time to answer.

“You’re coming?” he asks in surprise.

“Yeah, why not? I need to stretch my legs.”

We take the elevator and two minutes later we arrive on level ten, the IT floor. There are workstations throughout and at the back are six offices with glass walls as partitions, slimline black venetian blinds offering privacy to each office.

I follow Christopher down the corridor as people dive for their desks and pretend to work. I never come to this floor. Never needed to; not exactly sure why I’m here now.

Christopher stops to talk to someone and I continue on, get to the first glass door and read the sign:

Kathryn Landon

Hmm, even reading her name leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. “Knock, knock.”

“Come in.”

I open the door. “Hello.”

Kathryn looks up from her computer as if surprised. “Hello Mr. Miles, and to what do I owe this honor?”

I press my lips together so I don’t say something snarky; this woman brings out the smart-ass in me tenfold. “Just doing a tour, thought I’d pop in.”

She fakes a smile. “How lovely, the king has come to visit his faithful servants.”

I glare at her as I clench my jaw.

How can someone who when she dances is so happy and joyful, not to mention insanely hot . . . be filled with pure venom?

I walk in and close the door behind me, take a seat at her desk and link my hands in front of me.

She stares at me as she waits for me to speak . . . I don’t, we remain silent.

“Well?” She smiles.

I narrow my eyes as I stare at her; what is it with this fucking woman?

Nobody treats me the way she does, my mere existence pisses her off.

She smiles as if she’s happy, but what comes out of her mouth is always low-key aggressive. She’s the ultimate temper bait.

“Well what?” I reply.

“Are you going to talk to me on your visit?”

I dust my jacket off as I try to think of something to say. “How do you like working here?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes. “Are you going to try and pay me off to resign again?”

I wince. I did do that . . . didn’t I?

“Of course not,” I snap. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

She exhales heavily and turns back to her computer. “Well, do you want to discuss anything?”

That little red dress you own.

“Not particularly.” I run my pointer finger back and forth over my lips as I stare at her.

“So . . .” She raises an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“What do you mean, what?”

“Why are you acting weird?” she asks.

“I’m not,” I scoff as I stand. “I came to visit you, but obviously you don’t want visitors.”

“Mr. Miles.”

“Elliot,” I correct her.

She frowns as she stares at me. “Okay, you asking me to call you that is weird in itself. I’ve been here for seven years and never once have you asked me to call you that or bothered to visit me.”

“I’ve been very busy,” I fire back.

“For seven years?” She raises an eyebrow.

“Precisely.” I move for the door. “And now I know why I’ve been so busy.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you’re a very bad host, Kathryn.”

A trace of a smile crosses her face. “Are you high?”

“What?” I snap. “Of course I’m not fucking high.”

“Okay . . .”

I inhale deeply as I try to think of something to rectify this fuckup of a conversation. “I’m leaving,” I announce.

She smirks. “Okay . . .”

“Is that all you can say today . . . okay?”

She narrows her eyes. “Mr. Miles.”

“Elliot,” I correct her.

“Elliot, are you feeling alright?”

“I was until I visited you.” I exhale heavily. “Now you’ve completely ruined my day.”

She smiles as she puts her hand over her chest. “There he is, oh thank God, I thought I was going to have to call a doctor.”

I glare at her. “Goodbye, Kathryn.”

She smiles sweetly and waves with her fingertips. “Goodbye, have a nice day, my favorite boss ever.”

“Don’t patronize me,” I snap.

She turns back to her computer. “Just being a good office host. How am I doing?”

“Failing miserably.” I march out of her office and back to the elevator.

I push the button with force and clench my jaw as I try to think of a reasonable excuse as to why I came down here.

Nope . . .

I’ve got nothing.

The woman’s a bona fide bitch.

KATE

I walk out of the front doors of my building an hour later to see Daniel’s big smile: he’s leaning against his parked car on the other side of the road.

I smile and wave and make my way over to him across one of the busiest streets in London. “How did you find a parking space here?”

“Just lucky, I guess.” He winks. “I thought we could go shopping for a little bit.” He throws his arm over my shoulders as we stroll along.

“Shopping?” I screw up my face. “Ugh, I don’t want to go shopping, I can think of nothing worse. I’ll meet you at home.”

“Well . . .” He pauses as if getting the wording right in his head. “You know how I told you that I got invited to that function on Thursday night and I asked you to come with me?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I asked some questions and I’ve just been sent the guest list.”

“So?”

“Every potential client in the entire world will be in that ballroom.”

I screw up my face again. “Will you speak English, what the hell are you talking about?”

“You need to look fucking incredible.”

“Me?” I scoff as I point to my chest. “Why me?”

“Because everyone will know that I styled you.”

I stop on the spot. “I’m not being your walking billboard, Daniel,” I snap. “I’ve changed my mind, I don’t want to go anymore, take Rebecca instead. She can be your mannequin.”

“No. I need you.” He links his arm through mine and drags me along. “You have the look that I need and I know exactly what I’m doing with you. And don’t worry, I’m footing the entire bill.”

“Why would you offer to pay?”

“Well, I’m returning everything on Friday. Don’t get excited, I’m not that nice.”

“Isn’t that, I don’t know . . . a crime?” My eyes widen in exasperation.

“Only a little bit, and if you ruin anything, I’ll kill you. Oh, and I’ve booked you in for a hair and makeup appointment.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” I cry.

He runs his fingers over the top of my head and over the neat bun nestled tightly in the back. “Nothing . . . if you were ninety.”

I roll my eyes as he drags me along.

“First stop, Givenchy.” He smiles happily.

“Are you crazy?” I gasp. “You can’t afford Givenchy.”

“Oh, shut up already.” He scoffs as he pulls me up the front steps of the swanky building. “I’m faking it till I make it, and if you’re with me, so are you.”

I look down at myself and throw my hands up in the air in surrender. “I look like a damn Christmas bauble.”

Daniel on bended knee with a pin sticking out of his mouth. He sticks his hand up the bottom of my dress and fiddles with the hem. “Nothing about this outfit says Christmas.” He huffs. “Name one thing that’s Christmassy.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I glance up at my reflection in the mirror. “Maybe the painted nails, or the big red lips, perhaps the gold string stilettos . . . oh wait, what about the blazing bright gold fucking strapless dress.”

“You look awesome, Kate, just admit it.” Rebecca smiles dreamily as she lies on the carpeted floor.

I nervously glance up at myself in the mirror again and brush my hands over my hips. “But I don’t look like me.”

“That’s the point,” Daniel says as he stands and fluffs my hair. “Your hair is incredible at this length.”

“I love the blonde highlights too,” Beck chimes in. “How much did he cut off?”

“Four inches. It was way too long; did you wear it up every day?” Daniel asks.

“I wear it up for work, that’s all.”

“No more, you look ten times hotter with your hair down. If I see it up again I’m ripping it out, and I don’t care where we are or who sees.”

“You’re beginning to become an annoying flatmate,” I mutter dryly.

“Flattered.” Daniel takes out his phone and begins to snap away.

“I don’t want to be on your Instagram,” I huff.

“Oh, will you shut up.” He sighs as he snaps away. “Do you know how many women would kill to be styled like this?”

He’s right.

I smirk.

“And for free, I might add,” he says. “I’m very fucking expensive, you know?”

“Sorry.” I give him a lopsided smile. “I’m just . . .”

“Just what, darling?”

“I feel very . . .” My voice trails off.

He drops his phone as he looks over the top of it. “Very what?”

I gesture to my boobs and then down to my hips. “Exposed.”

Daniel smiles proudly as he holds his hands together. “Angel, if I had a figure like yours, I wouldn’t bother with clothes at all.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s because you’re a raving ho bag.”

Daniel chuckles with a cheeky shrug of his shoulders. “I am, aren’t I?”

“It’s not a compliment,” I reply as my attention turns back to the mirror.

My now shoulder-length hair is a honey blonde and set into big curls, my dress is strapless and gold—it fits like a glove and leaves nothing to the imagination. My makeup is smoky with big red lips. I don’t look like me. I look like someone you would see in a magazine and that makes me nervous as all hell. I put my hand on my stomach. “I’ve got butterflies,” I whisper.

Daniel holds his arm out and I link mine through it. “That’s the universe’s way of telling you that you look divine.” He smiles proudly.

“Thanks.” I look down at his black dinner suit. “You look pretty gorgeous yourself.”

“I know, right?” He winks and passes his phone to Rebecca. “One for the gram.”

Rebecca stands and takes a photo and Daniel’s phone beeps a message, which he checks. “Our car is here,” he announces.

He kisses Rebecca on the cheek. “Don’t wait up, sweets, we’ll be setting the town on fire all night long.”

Rebecca smirks and I chuckle. “You’re so dramatic.”

He whisks me out the door. “Always, angel, always.”

I link my arm through Daniel’s as we walk into the ballroom. “I’m so nervous I feel like I may throw up any minute,” I whisper as we walk through the beautiful-people crowd. Everyone is dressed to the nines in black tie; it really is spectacular.

“Why?” he whispers back. “Because you look hot for a change?”

He leads me through to the seating map and I glance over and see Elliot Miles. “Fuck,” I whisper as I turn my head away in disgust.

“What now?”

“My fucking boss is here.”

“So?”

“So . . . he’s a giant twat,” I whisper angrily. “I can’t see him, looking like this.”

Daniel looks over my shoulder in his direction. “Oh . . . hell,” he whispers. “That’s your . . . boss? Casanova Miles is your fucking boss . . . are you kidding me?”

“Why did you call him that?”

“That’s the press’s nickname for him. Well earned from what I hear.”

I glance over my shoulder at him: Elliot is talking to his three brothers. Oh no, they’re all here. “Don’t be fooled by his good looks, he’d cut your kidneys out with a blink of an eye,” I say.

“Baby . . . he could cut anything out and it would probably still feel good.”

I roll my eyes in disgust.

“Let’s go to the bar.” Daniel smiles as he pulls me along by the hand.

We get our champagne and his eyes go back to the corner where the Miles brothers are standing; he lifts his glass to his lips. “Well, well, well, he sure does have some powerful friends.”

“Who?”

“Your boss.”

“Oh, him.” I sip my champagne, wishing I could drain the entire glass. “Who cares?” I concentrate on sucking my stomach in. “This dress is suffocating me,” I whisper.

“Look who he’s talking to,” he replies, totally distracted.

“Did you hear me? I can’t breathe in these Spanx. Why did I need to wear this fucking ridiculous underwear?” I whisper.

“To hold your coochie in. He’s talking to Julian Masters and Spencer Jones.”

I laugh and snort my champagne up my nose. “Coochie?” I cough.

He slaps me on the back.

“What is a coochie?” I giggle.

His eyes stay fixed on the Miles brothers over my shoulder. “That hairy thing between your legs.”

I burst out laughing. “What the hell?” I continue to choke while I laugh.

“Julian Masters comes from one of the wealthiest families in the world, he’s a Supreme Court judge,” he continues.

I sip my drink, uninterested. “For your information, my coochie isn’t hairy and it most definitely doesn’t need to be held in.”

“Spencer Jones is a player, everything he does is across the tabloids.” He sips his champagne. “All coochies need to be held in. Unsightly things in evening wear.”

I giggle. “How many coochies have you seen through evening wear?”

“Too many to count, hideous mounds. Oh . . .” He lets out a low whistle. “And here comes Sebastian Garcia.”

I frown, and glance over. I definitely know the name of the prime minister of the United Kingdom. “Maybe they’re just seated together?”

“No, they’re acting like long-lost friends.”

I look around at all the beautiful people, so many gorgeous dresses. Imagine what it must be like to come to swanky events like this all the time.

“Oh, look,” Daniel whispers. “He spotted you.”

“Who?” I sip my drink.

“Elliot Miles.” He smiles darkly. “And . . . he likes what he sees.”

“What?” I frown.

“He’s eyeing you up and down.”

“What?” My eyes widen. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, he’s fucking checking you out.”

“Well, he won’t see anything,” I whisper. “Because my coochie is buried under the tightest underwear on earth.”

Daniel chuckles and taps his glass on mine. “Touché.”

“Where are we seated?” I ask.

“He’s coming over.”

“What?”

“With his brother.”

Oh no.

“Kate.” I hear a voice from behind me.

“Tristan.” I smile.

He kisses both my cheeks. “Holy shit, when did you get so hot?” He laughs. “You look incredible.”

I glance over his shoulder to Elliot standing there; he gives me a stifled smile with a curt nod. He’s not friendly like his brother.

“Tristan, this is Daniel. Daniel, this is Tristan.” They shake hands.

“Elliot, this is Daniel. Daniel, this is Elliot.” Elliot gives him a nod and shakes his hand.

No smile, no greeting.

Eesh . . . awkward.

“I’m going to the bar,” Daniel says.

“I’ll come,” Tristan replies, and they walk off together.

Oh no.

My eyes float to Elliot as he stares at me; there’s this awkwardness between us. “Have you come to make fun of me dressed like this?” I ask.

“On the contrary, I came over to tell you that you look beautiful, but I’ll take it back now. You obviously don’t want to hear it.”

I grip my champagne glass so tight that it might smash in my bare hands.

“Is he your boyfriend?” he asks.

“Um.” I glance over to Daniel and Tristan at the bar. “Friend.”

Elliot’s eyes hold mine. “What kind of friend?”

“Not . . . that kind.”

He nods once. “I see.”

“Is your . . . girlfriend here?”

“I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Wife?”

“No,” he replies curtly.

“Oh.”

An awkward silence falls between us and I see the muscles in his jaw clench as if he’s uncomfortable too.

“Excuse me while I go to the bathroom.” I smile.

He nods once.

“Lovely to see you, Mr. Miles.”

“Elliot.” His eyes hold mine. “Likewise.”

Our gaze holds for a few seconds longer than it should.

What’s going on here?

He’s different.

The night has been a whirlwind. I haven’t laughed so much for as long as I can remember. We’ve danced and drunk and Daniel has schmoozed with the women he needs to style and I’ve had a wonderful time. It’s late and the night is coming to an end.

“Home time.” He smiles as we sway to the music, then he looks across the room. “Kate . . . what is going on with you and your boss?”

“Nothing, why?”

“He hasn’t taken his eyes off you all night.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoff, but I do have to admit, every time I look Elliot’s way, he’s already looking at me. “He is not.”

“I’m telling you, darling, I can read men’s minds.”

I giggle. “And what is his mind saying?”

“It’s saying that he’s going to bend you over his desk and fuck you hard.”

I giggle again. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s so unusual.”

“What is?”

“Do you know the kind of women he usually dates?”

“No, and I don’t care.”

“Darling, you really need to keep up to date on current events. Don’t you read the tabloids?”

“No, and I’m appalled that you do.”

“He dated an acclaimed opera singer, an author, a humanitarian lawyer. He never dates run-of-the-mill women, and he wants you.”

“Should I be flattered to be the run-of-the-mill woman, then?”

“You know what I mean.” He gives me a cheeky wink.

I burst out laughing and he spins me around. I lock eyes with Elliot Miles and he gives me the best come-fuck-me look I have ever seen.

Our eyes lock and for a moment, time stops.

My stomach flutters and I snap my eyes away.

What the fuck was that?

It’s late Tuesday night. I make a cup of tea and sit it on my bedside table, begin to flick through my phone, and click on the dating app.

You’ve got mail.

What?

I open the chat box and read the message.

Dear Miss Leroo,

You do sound very tempting indeed. Nevertheless, I have an allergy to cats and with twelve of your own, dating you is an impossibility.

My best advice is to go outside and look to the ground, there you will find your one true love, although as we both know, dating a shadow would have its own obstacles.

I’m sure you are attempting (very poorly, I may add) to be witty.

Life must be pretty boring at your end.

Good luck in your dating ventures, Miss Leroo. With pick-up lines such as yours, you’re going to need it.

Keep chasing that sun.

Edgar Moffatt.

I click on his profile.

A goofy smile crosses my face and I slump back against my headboard as I reread the message.

Keep chasing that sun.

That’s what I’m doing, Edgar Moffatt the dick fondler, that’s what I’m doing.

I sit my head back against the wall as the sweat runs down my chest; it’s around 8 p.m. on Wednesday night and after the longest day in history, I’m in the sauna at the gym.

It’s hot and steamy and I let out a relaxed sigh.

The door opens and Elliot Miles appears with a white towel wrapped around his waist. He’s naked from the waist up and tanned skin and muscles are all I see.

Oh crap.

I swallow the lump in my throat.

He glances up and his step falters as he sees me. “Kathryn.” He takes a seat.

“Hi,” I squeak.

The door opens and a man goes to walk in.

“This is full,” Elliot snaps. “Come back later.”