Page 95 of Dirty Judge

“Tell me something.” I stepped closer. “Is there a flu or a bug going around the building?”

“Not that I know of, sir.”

“There has to be,” I said. “I need you to have the manager look into it ASAP.”

“Uh, okay…” He pulled a tablet from his pocket. “Can you tell me your symptoms?”

“I can’t sleep, I’m having trouble eating, and my chest hurts like hell.” I looked at him. “I can literally feel my heart aching with every beat.”

“There’s also a strange wetness that forms in my eyes late at night and the eye drops just make it worse.”

“Is that all, sir?”

No…

I refused to mention the fact that I kept seeing Olivia no matter where I went, that I grabbed my phone every few minutes to see if she’d texted or called, or that I’d struggled to go more than an hour without thinking about her beautiful face or hearing her raspy laughter.

Hell, I’d lost count of the times I’d envisioned her sitting in my lap or standing on her heels to kiss me. And all the nights we spent tangled in my sheets.

Those things had nothing to do with this sudden and inconvenient bout of illness.

“Yeah, that’s it,” I said. “You can tell him he has permission to spray disinfectant on my floor if he needs to.”

“I doubt that’ll be happening,” he muttered under his breath.

“What did you just say?” I asked.

“Nothing.” His face reddened. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You said ‘I doubt that’ll be happening,’” I repeated his words, daring him to deny it. “Are you a doctor?”

“No, sir, but…” He waved a hand as another valet pulled my McLaren to the curb. “You’re not sick.”

“I am,” I said. “I literally just gave you my list of symptoms.”

“You’re suffering from a heartbreak, sir.” He stared at me. “It’s typically what happens after a breakup.”

“I haven’t told you anything about who I’m dating.”

“It was the woman in the gray Nissan,” he said. “It was very obvious, sir.”

“We were just colleagues.”

“Okay, sir.”

“She meant nothing to me.”

“I believe you, sir.”

“Do you really?”

“No.” He walked over to my car and held the driver’s door open. “Have a wonderful day in the world, Mr. Ashton.”

I followed him and slid behind the wheel, but I didn’t immediately shut the door and drive away.

“Assuming your diagnosis is correct—and itisn’t,” I said to the valet, “how long does it normally take until these symptoms go away?”

“Hard to say.” He shrugged. “Could be weeks, could be months. It all depends.”