Free Give Me Yesterday by K Webster Page A

leans over and places a chaste kiss on my cheek before running a finger down my nose and taps the tip. “Now scoot, you’ve got work and I’ve got shit to do.”
    There’s that smile again…
    In a daze, I grab my purse and get out of the car, meeting his eyes one last time before turning and walking to the entrance of my office building. Despite the presence of the valets and the fact that it’s broad daylight, he waits until I am inside before driving slowly away in that chick magnet of his. I hope his speed was indicative of the fact that he was staring my way as well, seemingly a little bit lost in a fog caused by me.
    Many minutes after he’s gone, the hazy fog in my own brain begins to clear and I am suddenly able to think again. What just happened? The little devil on my shoulder is laughing and pointing at me. You got handled.

    At six fifty-eight, my doorman rings to tell me I have a visitor. I’ve spent the better part of the last two hours trying to figure out how to get out of this. I barely noticed when it was six-forty-five, used to burning the midnight oil at work. Luckily my high rise condo is less than a ten-minute walk from my office. I rushed home and put on a slightly more casual outfit, pressed khaki pants and a navy and white striped top, with three-quarter sleeves and a boat neck. Finishing off with pretty, navy ballet flats, makeup in check, hair in my typical style.
    I tell the doorman I’ll be right there and fetch my purse and keys. For some reason, I don’t want Chase to see my apartment. Okay, I know exactly why. My condo could grace the pages of a magazine, but even those homes have a personal touch. The décor is done in cream and different shades of brown. The walls are all adorned with sepia photographs of the city from different angles, but no people. There are not pictures of anyone in fact. No homemade blankets or pillows, no candles, sentimental knick-knacks, nothing to make the space seem personal. I’ve never had an issue with my apartment, but for reasons unknown, I don’t want Chase to see just how cold and empty I am.
    After entering the hall, I lock the door and take the elevator down to the lobby. Chase is at the counter shooting the shit with Gary, my doorman. When he sees me, his eyes light up and I go all squishy inside. He straightens up to his full height which has to be several inches over six feet because even in my heels, he’s several inches taller than me. Right now, in my flats, he towers over me and I can’t help feeling dainty and feminine.
    He walks up to me and kisses my cheek, and when he moves back, I see Gary gaping at us, his jaw practically unhinged. I frown at him and he immediately snaps his mouth shut and busies himself at the desk. I don’t understand his reaction, it’s not like I don’t have guests. My mother has visited me a few times and Lindsay stopped by once or twice before we lost touch. I’m wracking my brain to figure out who else has been at my place since I bought it five years ago.
    I don’t like the answer.
    Chase looks me up and down, smirking, but all he says is, “Let’s hit the road, babe.”
    The damn nickname flusters me, like every other time he’s used it. I should argue, insist on staying home, nip this in the bud, but I don’t. I don’t want to. For the first time in almost ten years, I admit to myself, I’m lonely. So, I let him guide me out to the vehicle, idling near the valet stand, which practically screams, “For a good time, spend an hour in my backseat with the owner.”
    He holds my door while I climb in, shuts it and jogs to the driver side. He gets in and glances over, “Seatbelt, Tori.”
    His tone is firm, a little rough even. I don’t usually forget, but I find myself burning brain cells from the heat he inspires inside of me. After I click it into place, he pulls out of the circular drive, carefully navigating the streets of the city—not an easy task when there are six-way intersections. The