Never Got Over You
Page 1
New York Times & USA Today bestselling author
WHITNEY G.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Whitney Gracia Williams.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
Cover design by Najla Qamber Designs.
Photography by Yasmeen Andersen
Model: Jason Bell
Typist: Bethany Castaneda
Proofing: Evelyn Guy (Indie Edit Guy)
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Never Got Over You
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
The aftermath
(of) me & you
...
still cuts me deeply
(and) while I can’t deny
the sleepless nights
the reckless rage
(and) the pain
I can try to pretend
like you never existed
...
like we never were
like you never were
Sometimes That’s the Only Way
...
I can handle another day
But Now That You’re Back
...
...
There Are Some Things I Need to Say
...
...
I need you to listen
It wasn’t just you
...
It was me, too
...
...
...
...
...
(So) Can we forgive each other?
Or Is This Really Over?
Forever
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ALSO BY WHITNEY G.
ALSO BY WHITNEY G.
THE STEAMY COFFEE READS Collection
Naughty Boss
Dirty Doctor
Cocky Client
REASONABLE DOUBT SERIES
Reasonable Doubt #1
Reasonable Doubt #2
Reasonable Doubt #3
FALLING FOR MR. STATHAM Series
Resisting the Boss
Loving the Boss
THE ONE WEEK SERIES
On a Tuesday
On a Wednesday
On a Thursday
On a Friday
On a Saturday
On a Sunday
On a Monday
STANDALONE NOVELS
Sincerely, Carter
Forget You, Ethan
Mister Weston (Turbulence)
Over Us, Over You
Two Weeks’ Notice
Never Got Over You
Break up with Him, for Me
The Fine Print
Filthy Lawyer
We Could’ve Been
Tell No One Else
Definitely Not Him
Good Kisser
STANDALONE NOVELLAS
The Layover
Late Night Kisses
NOVEL COLLECTIONS
NEW YORK NIGHTS
Come Fly with Me
Sincerely, Yours
For J.S.
I love you.
Thanks for getting me back on track.
NEVER GOT OVER YOU
NINE AND A HALF YEARS ago, you married a man who wasn’t me. He wasn’t even half of me ...
Nine and a half hours ago, you walked through the doors of my billion-dollar boardroom for a job interview.
Although every person at the table fell for your charm and applauded, I didn’t dare. I couldn’t help but notice your bare ring finger. Couldn’t help but notice that you were even sexier now than you were on the night we first met.
I honestly didn’t want to hire you, but I had no choice. (I was outvoted 16-1, but trust me, you got this job by default.)
When you signed the papers and we shook hands, I didn’t bring up the fact that you didn’t “wait for me” like you promised to years ago, or that you just moved on with your life like what we had meant nothing. Instead, I insisted that we keep things one-hundred percent professional.
So, for the record: I've long forgotten about you and all the times we shared. (This includes the way your body feels under mine, the way your laughter used to make me smile, and the way you used to breathlessly say my name for hours at a time.)
I'm definitely not in denial, this is all one hundred percent true. You'll never hear me say that you still have an effect on me, that you’re still the best I’ve ever had, or worse, that I never got over you ...
Table of Contents
The aftermath
(of) me & you
still cuts me deeply...
While I can’t deny
the sleepless nights
the reckless rage
(and) the pain
I can try to pretend
like you never existed
like you never were
like we never were
Sometimes that’s the only way
I can handle another day
(But) now that you’re back
there are some things I need to say
I need you to listen
(because) it wasn’t just you
It was me, too
(So) can we forgive each other?
Or is this really over?
Forever.
PROLOGUE
James
~ August 24, 2010 ~
TO: KATE KENSINGTON
The Kensington Estates
Edgewood, Nevada
DEAR KATE,
As you know, I’ve always preferred numbers and lists over drawn-out explanations and extensive sentences, so allow me to give you a few important ones before I write this list.
4, 2.5, 810, 32 and 1.
Four. The number of times I could make you come in a single night. (More if I used my mouth.) Between bending you over the edge of my bed, grabbing fistfuls of your hair as I pressed you against the windows, and sliding my cock so deep and hard inside of you, that my name was the only thing you could say for hours afterward, I think we can both agree that our sex was impeccable, perfect.
Two & a half. The distance, in hours, between our old homes on the lake. A drive I made every night for an entire summer, without fail, without hesitation. Whenever you needed me―whenever you sounded like you needed me, I made that drive to see you.
Eight hundred and ten. The number of guests that were invited to your lavish, million-dollar wedding. (The wedding where you willingly married a man who was—and will always be, only half of me...) Funny, I didn’t get an invitation, but just so you know, the cake at the reception was a little dry. Surely you and the groom could’ve afforded something that tasted better than that...
Thirty-two. The number of beauty marks that mar your inner left thigh. The same number of freckles that dot your lower back. (There’s no point to me bringing this up, I just thought you should know that I always noticed the little things.)
One. The number of times you broke the only promise that ever mattered to me. Since you somehow graduated from a line of elite prep schools without ever learning what the phrase “Wait for me” means, I’m attaching the definition on the back of this postcard.
You have yet to even explain what the hell happened, what the hell led you to walk away from everything we built together. (And I still can’t believe I h
ad to find out about your engagement through the press...)
I know you’ll never be happy with a man like him, but whenever you finally realize this and regret it, don’t be surprised when I’ve moved on to someone who would never hurt me in the way you did.
Sincerely,
The man who gave you the last real love (and best orgasms) you’ll ever know.
James Garrett
“UM, SIR?” THE RED-HEADED postal agent looked over my postcard and shook her head. “I really think it’s best if you send this type of thing in a sealed envelope.”
“I need to be sure that she reads it upon delivery.”
“Right. Well―” She cleared her throat. “I can guarantee that several people are going to read this long before delivery, so I think you should consider buying more than just a stamp. This seems a bit personal.”
“It’s more than personal.” I handed her my credit card. “Charge me for the stamp, please.”
“Wait a second.” She set it to the side and looked into my eyes. “I take it that this is your first real breakup?”
I knew I should’ve used the damn kiosk instead of coming in here.
“I’ll take your silence as a yes,” she said. “I know you didn’t ask for my advice, but from the sound of this letter, I’m guessing that the breakup is still fresh?”
I said nothing. I pointed to my credit card.
“You know, whenever the heartbreak is new, we tend to say things we don’t mean. We’re too busy processing all our feelings and ...”
I mentally blocked her words, tapping my fingers atop the counter and hoping her lips would stop moving.
Contrary to her assumption, the breakup wasn’t “fresh” at all. Today marked the eighteenth month since we’d last spoken. And while Kate was probably traipsing vineyards in the south of France and living the lavish lifestyle she’d always known, I was still struggling to sleep at night. Still rolling over and reaching for her―even when I was lying next to someone else.
“If I were you ―” The postal psychologist was still talking. “I would rip this postcard to shreds, walk out of here with your head held high, and commit to trying some new things. The sooner you do that, the sooner you can start getting over this woman.” She smiled as she handed over my credit card.
“Besides,” she said, “you don’t look much older than mid-twenties right now. I’m sure your young love was intense, but later, when you look back at it, I’m sure you’ll see that it was never the ‘forever’ type that was built to last.” She finally took a breath. “So, what do you say?”
“Give me a goddamn envelope.”
The aftermath
Sean
(Yes, my name was “James” years ago, but since I don’t feel like writing a novel about why it’s different now, I’ll explain it later.)
SEATTLE’S REPUTATION for dreary grey skies and unrelenting rains should’ve been the first strike against me ever moving here. The second strike should’ve been a tie between any of the things that made my weeks crawl by at a snail’s pace: The standstill traffic that clogged the streets in the afternoons, the shallow dating pool that left me dry for months, and the excruciatingly boring boardroom meetings that made me wonder why I ever traded in a career where I used my hands for this soft man, paper-pushing, suit and tie shit.
Nonetheless, the third strike was the one I didn’t see coming. It blindsided me, cost me millions of dollars, and made me realize that some numbers do lie. When I bought this company—Pier Autumn Coffee, I was told that I would have full control of every aspect.
What they didn’t tell me was that this company was secretly working on an IPO, and since I’d foolishly failed to do my research weeks before the sale, I had to come to the realization that I hadn’t really “bought” a company at all. I’d bought a bunch of fucking shares, and even as CEO, every executive decision I made would have to be vetted with a sixteen-member board. A board that I hated from day one.
They thought I was petty, and I thought they were too uptight. They thought I wasn’t levelheaded enough, since I “only saw things in black and white,” and I thought (No, I knew) that I was the only billionaire in the room, so their opinions didn’t matter.
We were stuck with each other, and the employees were often forced to pick sides. So, I mercilessly fired whoever picked theirs.
As of today, though, I was putting an end to our war. I was hosting the entire executive team on my superyacht and penning a new set of company rules as a way to make a truce.
“Is ‘If any of you ever go behind my back and ask the board for a second opinion, I guarantee that I will fucking fire you’ too harsh, Blue?” I looked over at the only person I trusted, my grey and white Siberian Husky. “Do you think I should leave it at that, or add another clause?”
He barked three times.
“You’re right.” I clicked my pen. “I’ll add another clause.”
“Mr. Holmes?” My Chief of Customer Service, Glinda, stepped into my office. “Mr. Holmes, can I give you the rest of those stats you asked for?”
“Only if you can sum it up by the time I finish my next sentence.” I added, ‘I will withhold your paycheck and find a way to sue the hell out of you’ to my manifesto.
“Dunkin’ Donuts beat us in three categories, Starbucks beat us in two, but we beat both of them in seven.”
“Great. Thanks.” I waited to hear the sound of her heels clacking against my floor, the door shutting right after, but she was standing still with her arms crossed.
“Is there something else, Glinda?” I asked.
“Yes.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “I have two kids in college, a four-thousand-dollar mortgage, and a seven-hundred-dollar monthly car note. I also have an expensive cable bill, a very high utility bill, and I’m still paying on my forty-thousand-dollar student debt from over a decade ago.”
I blinked. “I’m not really in the business of offering personal loans to employees, since I already sign off on your paycheck twice a month,” I said, smiling. “But if you’re asking for my financial advice, it sounds like you’re living a lifestyle you can’t afford yet. I suggest cutting the cable...”
“This isn’t about asking you for a goddamn loan or wanting your financial advice,” she hissed. “This is about something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about for a long time, something I’ve had on my chest for far too long since you took the reins here.”
I leaned back in my chair, tempted to fire her for interrupting my manifesto with what was clearly bullshit, but I motioned for her to finish.
“I don’t think you understand that having a job, or not having a job, affects someone’s livelihood, Mr. Holmes. People have to earn money to survive.”
I raised my eyebrow. I knew that fact all too well; I’d done hard, physical labor for most of my life and I’d only come into money a little under ten years ago.
“You can’t keep firing people on a whim, whenever and wherever you feel like it,” she said, “and I can’t afford to not have a sense of job security.” She pulled an envelope from her purse and set it in front of me. “As of this moment, I’m done with you and Pier Autumn Coffee. I’m taking a job at Starbucks before you find a way to put me on the chopping block next.”
“I honestly had no plans to fire you, Glinda.” Until next month. “And I actually haven’t fired anyone in a very long time.”
“You fired your CFO over breakfast last week for no reason.”
“There was definitely a reason.”
“Care to share it, then?”
“Not with someone who is no longer an employee.” I tossed her envelope into the trash. “Especially now that you’re going to the competition. I wouldn’t want Starbucks to know what I know.”
“You fired my best friend Carrie Edwards four weeks ago. Without warning, via email.” Her face reddened. “She now has to work with her husband at his lawn care company, just because you woke up one morning and felt like firing someone.”
I tapped my fingers against my desk and swallowed my thoughts. I fired Carrie Edwards because she followed me into the men’s bathroom at an executive night-party, because she drunkenly kissed me while rubbing her hand against my crotch and saying that she wanted me to help her fulfill a ‘screwing my boss’ fantasy. Although I’d gently pushed her away and attributed her behavior to drunkenness, she’d done it again days later when she was one-hundred percent sober.
“I wasn’t aware that she was married,” was all I could say.
“Exactly.” She scoffed. “Even if you did know, I’m sure you would’ve come up with another cruel way to let her go. So, don’t take this the wrong way, but you are literally the pettiest person I have ever worked for. I’m glad that I won’t be around to see you run this company into the ground in the not-so-distant future.”
“Wait a minute, hold that thought.” I tilted my head to the side. “Has Starbucks hired you to be their new Chief of Fortunetelling?” I asked. “Can I ask you a few questions about what’s to come in my own life or do your skills only work for a few things?”
“Sure.” She crossed her arms, smirking. “I’ll tell you exactly what’s about to happen in your fucking future, Mr. Holmes. Every executive onboard your yacht, right now, is ignoring your orders about the upcoming Stanton deal. Instead, they’re drawing up a pre-emptive contract which will give them the ability to sidestep you—whenever they want, and go straight to the board. You know, the sixteen people who actually give a damn about this company and don’t see it as another luxury purchase.”
I smiled. “Thank you so much for my fortune. I’m glad my future looks so bright.”
“You’re quite welcome, asshole.” She stormed out of the room, but then she came right back. “Is there a way for you to um, call the captain and bring the ship back to shore? I feel like my walk-off has less of an effect since I can’t really leave right now.”