by Virna DePaul
Until I don’t.
Until my lyrics become less uplifting and more about mistakes and regret and being stuck in the past, and I’m once again haunted by memories, overwhelmed with guilt for what I’d done.
And for what I hadn’t done.
For a few hours, I’d forgotten what had happened. And I couldn’t forget.
I didn’t deserve to forget.
I throw everything into the box and shove it back into my closet.
After I climb into bed, sleep eludes me. I stare up at the ceiling, wanting to stop my mind from circling over the events of that last night of college. I want a distraction so bad that I eagerly reach for thoughts of Bastian. I deliberately try conjuring sexy images of him, but oddly enough, those images keep morphing into ones of him lying on the floor with his head in my lap. Or of him smiling and talking to me for the first time.
Asking for coconut curry wings of all things.
And with those images, I feel my anxiety fade away and an odd peacefulness settle over me until I’m finally able to fall asleep.
The next morning, I wake up determined to go to Bastian’s house and hand him his wallet in person, but while I’m getting ready, I lose my nerve. Again.
I can’t just show up unannounced like some creeper after two days. Plus, what if he really does invite me inside for coffee or something? All I’ll be able to think about is I’m inside his house. Where he sleeps. Showers. Jerks off and fucks and . . .
So no. In the interest of maintaining my cool and not coming off as a total idiot (or doing anything idiotic, like grabbing his hand, searching for his bedroom, and asking him for my reward for returning his wallet), I decide to drop by his office. He’ll probably be at home recuperating, so I can leave the wallet with his secretary and get on with my life. He never has to know the type of snooping and fantasizing I’ve been engaging in for the past two days.
I’ll just be some random good Samaritan and I’ll forget about him and how thoughts of him filled me with a sense of peace last night when I’d really needed it.
I’ll also forget about potential rewards and how he needs XL-sized condoms.
Yep, I’ll completely and totally forget about him and his XL dick.
First, however, I stuff two $50 bills into the wallet to make up for stealing that $100 for the taxi. I really can’t afford it—I needed that money for, well, food—but it was my own fault for giving myself a loan without thinking about the consequences. I bet Bastian could lose $100 and just shrug, but not me. Never me, perpetually broke Julia.
After hopping into my car, I drive to Bastian’s work building, circle the block for several minutes trying to find a parking spot, then finally pull into the passenger loading zone, figuring I’ll only be a few minutes anyway. When I get inside, I look at the directory. He’s on the tenth floor. I almost roll my eyes. Of course he’s on the top floor. He probably insisted on it when he signed the agreement with whoever owns this place. Either that or he owns the whole damn building.
Another thing that catches my eye, however, is that the business listed below him as being on the ninth floor is The Kiss Talent Agency. I roll my eyes as I immediately start to imagine what might have happened if, before the ambulance had arrived, I’d given into my temptation to kiss Bastian. Just one soft, tender kiss to show he wasn’t alone and that I cared about him, even though I was a complete and utter stranger. But of course, those relatively sweet thoughts turn X-rated as I imagine kissing more of him. All of him.
It’s ridiculous how even reading the word ‘kiss’ in a completely inane context has me fantasizing about Bastian again. I need to return his wallet right now and get the hell out of here.
When I get upstairs, the elevator opens into a suite that is definitely not cheap. Luxurious carpets cover the floor, while furniture that’s probably worth more than my whole apartment takes up the waiting room. A hot guy sits at the front desk, which surprises me—and then makes me feel ashamed for being so sexist—but he’s on the phone, so he smiles and waves at me to take a seat. I sit and study him. His blond hair perfectly tousled across his forehead, he looks like he’d be at home by the ocean, surfing waves and catching a tan.
“As I said, Mr. Rich is currently in a meeting, but I’d be happy to take a message. Or I can transfer you to his voicemail. I’m sorry, I can’t interrupt him. No, I really can’t.” The guy rolls his blue eyes, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. “You’ll just send him an email? That sounds great. Okay, have a nice day.” He hangs up and says to me, “Why do people call in the first place and then just end up sending an email?”
I shrug. “To be as annoying as possible?”
He laughs. “Probably. Are you here to see Mr. Rich? He’s in a meeting, if you couldn’t tell.”
“No, I actually have something to drop off—”
I’m cut off when the phone rings at the same time yet another hot guy comes down the hallway. He immediately throws himself into a chair not far from me and lets out a sigh like his dog just died. A woman follows after him, dressed in a classy suit.
“Mr. Masters, Mr. Rich asked if you’d like to reschedule your next appointment,” she says. Her hair is in a tight bun, and she’s wearing hipster glasses that make her seem professional instead of kitschy.
Mr. Masters waves a hand. “Sure, Holly, whatever. I just needed to get out of there.”
Mr. Masters seems familiar, causing me to look more intently at him. I barely stifle a gasp. Mr. Masters is Ryland Masters, an up-and-coming musician and rock star. I’d recently downloaded his EP and couldn’t stop listening to it. He mixes an edgy sound with plaintive lyrics, and he plays the guitar like a fiend. What is he doing here of all places?
He glances at me, and then he smiles. He holds out a hand. “Ryland Masters. You are?”
Heat burns my cheeks. I’ve never been a huge fangirl, but suddenly I’m about to burst into tears like some Justin Bieber acolyte.
I take his hand, and my entire body tingles. “Julia Rominger. I know who you are. I love your music.”
He visibly perks up. “A fan? Excellent! What’s your favorite track?”
In my peripheral vision, I notice the woman in the suit walk up to the receptionist. When I glance at her, she smiles, as if telling me to go ahead and talk to Ryland while I can.
“Um . . . ‘Anywhere, Everywhere,’” I reply without even having to think about it. “I can’t stop listening to it. My cat probably hates me by now because I have it on repeat.”
Ryland laughs. “That’s awesome. Not the annoying your cat part. I’ve heard cats can be jackasses when they’re annoyed. I had one as a kid and he liked to pee on my backpack if I left it in the hallway. Although sometimes I think my mom put him up to it.”
I laugh, and for several minutes we chat about his music and his upcoming projects and tour. I have to give him props: he’s charming and asks questions, appearing to be fascinated when I tell him I hand out samples for a living.
“What are you here for? Are you one of Mr. Rich’s clients?”
He huffs. “Yeah, but I’m rethinking that.”
“Really? How come?”
“He’s my financial advisor—important shit and all that—and I want to invest in my friend’s start-up. It’s risky, sure, but Rich doesn’t understand that my whole life revolves around taking risks.”
“So he’s advising against the investment?”
“Yes, but . . . it’s not that so much. He’s just doing his job. It’s more that he doesn’t get me, and that worries me. I don’t think he even knows what kind of music I play, you know.”
I’m a little surprised that he told me all of this, but my curiosity is sparked despite myself. It’s none of my business, but hey, nothing wrong with getting a little intel now and then.
“Have you held back telling him any of this? How important this investment is to you? Or argued your case for why it’d be a good investment in the first place?” Ryland doesn’t strike me as s
hy, but I can see how someone could be intimidated by a guy like Sebastian Rich and his fancy setup here. Although what do I know about investments and money? The only thing I’ve ever invested in is my ass on my couch watching Netflix.
“On paper, it’s not a good investment. But my gut tells me different.” Ryland glances at his phone and stands up. “Hey, I gotta run, but what’s your number? Maybe we can meet up again.”
I blink, stunned that a legit rock star wants to keep in touch. I stutter out the number, and after putting it into his phone, Ryland grins and leaves.
He’s definitely gorgeous, I think to myself. But although I was starstruck by him, I wasn’t particularly interested in him as a man. He didn’t affect me the way Bastian has. Even thinking about Bastian now makes me shiver, and it reminds me why I came and why I need to get out of here before he shows up and I make a fool of myself.
I get up and approach the front desk. Hot guy is on the phone again. The woman in the suit—Holly, Ryland had called her—turns my way, then looks over my shoulder. She groans. “Great,” she mumbles.
“I’m sorry?”
She shakes her head and smiles. “Nothing. Have you been helped?”
“Yes—I mean, no.” I dig around in my bag for the wallet, and of course, I can’t find it right away. How can something that large disappear in the depths of my bag? I really need to get a smaller purse. Or maybe keep less trash in it. “I have something . . .”
I look up when I hear footsteps. And then my breath catches.
It’s him. Bastian Rich. Wearing a suit that screams it’s tailor-made. His dark hair and golden eyes are undeniably gorgeous, and he looks so yummy I could seriously nibble on him like a box of chocolates.
He doesn’t see me at first, though. Instead, he asks Holly in an irritated voice, “Did you get my next appointment confirmed with Ryland?”
She pushes her glasses up her dainty nose. “Um—well, he said he wanted to reschedule, but—”
“But what? Is it really that hard to make an appointment with a client?” Bastian snaps, then runs an agitated hand through his hair, disheveling it.
Holly doesn’t say anything, but I can tell she’s miffed. I’m miffed on her behalf. It’s not her fault Ryland walked out before she could talk to him again!
Then Bastian glances at me. His eyes widen, and before I know it, he’s looking like a thundercloud come to rain down hailstones on my head. “What are you doing here?”
Damn, who pissed in his Cheerios this morning? Suddenly, all thoughts of him being a good man shatter like glass. Stupid, Julia. You’re so stupid.
I finally find his wallet and, hand shaking, hold it out. “This is yours. Obviously. Well, um, I needed to look for ID and then in the confusion didn’t get the wallet back to you. But now I’m here. Giving you the wallet. Because it’s yours.”
I bite my tongue. Why am I so awkward and weird?
Bastian stares at me. I stare at him. I wonder if we signed up for some staring contest that I was unaware of.
Then he takes the wallet and shoves it into the pocket of his jacket. “You could’ve just called. Yesterday would have been good.”
I almost say he could’ve called yesterday, too—to thank me for calling 911 and possibly saving his ass. But instead I say, “Yeah, well, I . . . figured it would be safer to just return it in person. So here I am.”
“Here you are.”
The words are dripping in sarcasm, and I have to restrain myself from giving him the finger. I haven’t done anything to warrant being treated like some idiot. I didn’t even have to give the wallet back! Any asshole would’ve pocketed the cash, maxed out the credit cards, and then tossed the rest. But not only did I return it, I repaid him the $100 that I couldn’t afford to repay.
Hands on my hips, I hear the words come from my mouth before I realize I’m saying them. “Look, I know we barely know each other, but you should really rethink the whole suit-and-tie ensemble if it’s going to make you act like an asshole. Frankly, I liked you better when you were passed out cold on a grocery store floor. Your last name is Rich, not Lord of All He Surveys. Plus, I’m not the one about to lose an important client because I’m a judgmental dickwad.”
Silence. A flush creeps up my face as I realize what I’ve said, and I can almost hear Holly and the receptionist staring at me. I glance at them out of the corner of my eye, and they look so astonished that I desperately wish I could sink into the floor right then and there.
But Bastian doesn’t seem mad. He seems . . . intrigued. “What did Ryland say to you?”
I don’t think Ryland wanted me to tell Bastian what he told me, but Bastian doesn’t look like he’ll take no for an answer. “Just that you don’t understand he’s a guy who takes risks and you should take that into account with this potential investment.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. I also think—” I stop, mostly because I’ve already said too much already.
“Don’t stop now on my account,” Bastian says smoothly. “What do you think?”
“Well, that maybe you should listen to his music. Get to know him. I know it sounds kind of silly, but his music is really complex. Interesting. And I think it might help you see how important it is to Ryland that he not play things safe.”
I feel like I’m babbling nonsense and not getting my point across, but Bastian is just looking at me, like he’s trying to figure me out.
I heft my bag onto my shoulder and turn to go. “I guess, have a nice day.”
He doesn’t stop me. I’m glad. I need to get out of here. But after I enter the elevator, I see him gazing at me as the doors are closing. It’s a gaze like a predator’s: watchful, intent. I shiver just as the doors close and he disappears from view.
I barely stop myself from hitting my head on the elevator wall in frustration.
Well, I’d wanted Bastian to notice me, and boy, did he ever. Now he knows I’m a mouthy weirdo who thinks she knows all about financial advising.
Just as I step out of the elevator, I get a text from Kevin.
Did you see Big Sexy?
I type back a quick reply: Yeah and he was a dick. I gave him his wallet back, though. I hope he chokes on it.
Ooooh, girl. Give me the deets!
At least I have Kevin in my life to bitch to. Smiling, I text him everything, and as per usual, he replies in 75 percent emoji as the story unfolds. By the end, he’s just texting me the skull emoji over and over again. I burst out laughing.
When I finally step outside, I’m feeling better.
Then I swear when I see the red piece of paper that is a parking ticket stuffed under my windshield.
Absolutely freaking perfect.
6
Bastian
As I watch Julia leave my office, I think two things: one, I have to give her credit for her spunk; and two, I fucked that up so badly that I’m surprised the building’s still standing.
I glance over at my personal assistant, Holly. She and Noah, our receptionist, are still gaping. At my scrutiny, Noah clears his throat and averts his gaze. Holly says, “I’ll call Mr. Masters later today to confirm that appointment, sir.”
She normally calls me Bastian, not sir, and the reason she’s doing it now fills me with guilt. “Thank you.” I’m about to apologize for being so curt with her earlier when she looks over my shoulder and frowns. I turn and see my brother Lucian approaching. He points in the direction of my office and I nod. When I turn back, I see Holly walking in the other direction.
I’ll just have to apologize to her later. It’s the least I can do for being such an ass.
I’m not the one about to lose an important client because I’m a judgmental dickwad. Did Julia really say that to me? No one ever talks to me like that. But now a woman who hands out chicken wing samples at the local grocery store basically told me to go fuck myself.
I laugh softly, then notice Noah staring at me again.
“I’ll be in my office with Lucian, Noa
h.”
“Yes, sir.”
I shut the door after I enter my office. Lucian already has his feet up on my desk, which I silently move off the expensive mahogany.
I slump down into my chair across from him and sigh.
Holly’s not the only one I need to apologize to. As soon as I can, I need to track Julia down. But when I do, will I be able to apologize and refrain from asking her out, which I’d been wanting to do for weeks now?
I’ve been wanting to do far more than ask her out. I want to feel her move against me. I want to hear her gasp and cry out my name with pleasure. I want to plunge into her moist depths over and over again, until I know her body inside and out as well as I know my own. And I want to spend hours, days, and months, every moment that we’re not making love, uncovering the nuances of her sweet and fiery personality.
Only I can’t do any of that. Not anymore.
Well, I can, but I shouldn’t.
I’ve been off, feeling tired lately, and I’d begun to fear it, but collapsing at Cooper’s and the subsequent tests have confirmed that my lupus is back. Not that it ever went away, but I’d been in remission for over a year now. I’d stupidly thought I’d put it behind me, and to add insult to injury, I ended up passing out in a public place, in front of Julia. Which is why I’d been so fucking embarrassed when I’d seen her just now and, already agitated because of my conflict with Ryland, had acted like the asshole she’d called me.
What a mess. I sigh again.
“So are you going to tell me what that was all about, or are you just going to sit there and sigh?” I have to give Lucian credit—he never minces words. He stares at me, waiting for me to reply.
I laugh, a little bitterly. “Do you really want to know?”
“Stupid question, since I already asked. Give me the deets. The four-one-one. Whatever the young people call it these days.”