THE GIRLFRIEND III

THE GIRLFRIEND III


Andrew's Pov.

I’m calm.

Even though I had no reason to feel that pot of emotions bubbling inside me but now I'm calm. So what if they're kissing? They’re grown adults. They can do as they please.

It's the truth. And it's what I said to myself over and over until it sank into my thick skull.

I think I'm just protective of Angel. And who can blame me, especially everything that happened. But this? This is overprotective. I'm behaving like an ‘all-natural, no dyes’ mom that heard her child say the word sugar.

I step into the house, shutting the door just right; I don't slam it. My grip on my emotions is ironclad.

Besides, his car is gone.

That detail slides into my mind like cold water on a hot day. It’s ridiculous how much relief that gives me.

Anna’s in the living room. She's changed her dress to a knee-length blue one, with one shoulder. She’s sitting on the couch, both feet on the ground, the remote dangling in her hand. She’s idly flipping through channels without watching a single thing.

Her gaze snaps up when she hears me. For half a second her face brightens, then just as quickly, it drops.

I catch it, every flicker of her expression. I might be hurt if I didn’t understand it immediately. She’s not disappointed to see me specifically, it's just she’s waiting for someone else.

I have leverage. Anna leverage. This has never happened; Anna was already married by the time I was old enough to know what marriage was and hasn't dated anyone since her husband died. This is almost. . . delicious.

“Waiting for someone, Anna?” My tone is light, teasing just on the edge of smug.

Her eyes narrow instantly, the way a bird might when it knows a cat is about to pounce. She calculates her next move quickly, probably considering every possible answer and how I could use it against her. Then she chooses honesty, probably trying to make me lose interest in needling her.

“Yes. Jameson.”

A calculated answer, gambling on the fact that if she puts the cards down herself I probably can't do anything with them. Wrong.

“Oh, that sounds familiar,” I say speculatively, hand on my chin. “Who is he again?”

She narrows her eyes at me. Jameson has been working here for years but I know she won't answer that question by telling me he works for me.

“He’s my boyfriend.”

Bingo. That's what I was looking for.

“Ah, yes. Jameson. Anna’s boyfriend. Anna has a boyfriend,” I say in a sing-song voice.

God, this feels good. All the times she teased me about whoever I was dating — even after I’d stopped being a teenager — come back to me in a rush. And now here she is, groaning, a blush on her cheeks.

“Anyway,” she rushes out even as her cheeks are still pink. I'm not even done yet and I won't let her change the subject until I get my fill.

“—you’re home a little later than you told Angel. She thought she’d be here half an hour ago so she could say goodbye.”

Anna's words cut through the teasing, like a hit knife through butter. What does she mean? “What? Goodbye? Where’d she go?”

“Back to her apartment. Ian told me the guards are in it.” Anna perks up as she continues, “Oh! With her new boyfriend.”

The words don’t land all at once. They scatter through my head; Angel not being here and her supposedly having a boyfriend each talking their own time to roll over in my mind.

For a beat, I can’t tell if Anna's joking. I blink at her. Is this just her way of getting the heat off herself?

I start with the second part of her sentence because that's less plausible than Angel going back to her apartment to get a few things. “Angel doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, she does,” she says, fussing with the arm of her dress. “They started dating today. And they’re so cute.”

A sinking feeling in my stomach, I ask again, “What?”

“You know — the doctor,” Anna says, glancing toward the front door again.

I do indeed know the doctor. Hank.

Hank and Angel. . . dating.

Four words that I can't seem to wrap my head around right this moment. I mean it's not so far fetched, especially as it has already happened but. . . Hank and Angel dating?

The front door opens and Jameson steps in. Anna stands immediately, going to him.

He looks dapper. His head is freshly shaved so it gleams, he's wearing a fun, ironed short-sleeved button down, slacks and maybe just a tad too much cologne. I don't worry about his position, manning the door, because he'd have someone covering for him.

And he does, because he smiles at me, relaxed, before leaning down to kiss Anna's cheek. “Good afternoon sir,” he says, nodding politely.

“Afternoon, Jameson. “My voice is steady, thankfully. “You both have fun now.” I even manage to smirk at Anna.

She rolls her eyes, and I walk over giving her a hug for the sole purpose of whispering in her ear, “Now you be back at a respectable time, young lady.”

Anna huffs out a laugh, rolling her eyes again before threading her hand through his arm and waving at me as they leave.

My distraction gone, my mind truly begins running circles, chasing the thought that refuses to slow down.

I’d considered the possibility once or twice; Hank being bold enough to ask Angel out. But that was in the future, distant, something far enough on the horizon. Plus she could say no.

Now it’s here. And weirdly enough I wasn’t ready for it.

My phone rings. The sound startles me, jerking me out of my thoughts. I answer without checking the caller ID.

“I found one, sir.” Kiernan’s voice is brisk, businesslike.

Found what? For a moment, I'm very confused before I remember what I asked him to do. “The Private Investigator, yes.”

“Yessir,” he answers and I can hear the clicks of fingers hitting a keyboard. “They say she’s good. A little enthusiastic, but she’ll find you anything you want to know.”

“Send me the number,” I say softly. I just want to know. For safety reasons. Considering all that's happened recently, I'm right to be worried.

I'm sure it's nothing, really. I trust Daphne and wh
at we shared. I do, I'm sure it is a harmless secret. I'm just taking a peek.

“Already sent, sir.”