by R.S. Grey
It makes sense to me. “I need to get my stuff and say goodbye to the girls.”
Diego shakes his head. “No, no. While we’d love to see you once more before you move back to the States for good, why don’t we just ship your stuff back to you?” He glances toward Nicolás, who’s nodding in agreement. “No sense in wasting a couple grand on flights if you don’t have to.”
I laugh at how naïve they’re being. “Olive wouldn’t mind so much, but Luciana will never forgive me if I don’t come back to say goodbye to her.”
Diego rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry about that. Luce will understand if we frame it as a love story: your clock struck midnight and you had to rush home from the ball. Now all you need is to find your prince.”
I’m glad they seem to think that, because when they hand the phone over to her during the FaceTime call and I begin to explain the situation, she hangs up on me midsentence, and not by accident. I call again. She answers, and HANGS UP AGAIN.
Diego shoots me a quick text.
Diego: Okay, she’s taking it slightly harder than expected, but there is still no reason for you to come back to Spain just to get your stuff. Luciana will calm down. Also, when did she get too old for fairy tales?
Olive, bless her, doesn’t give a shit that I’m leaving. She sends me a thoughtful, quick text message thanking me for being her tutor and wishing me well in the future. By contrast, Luciana texts me 15 skull emojis paired with an adorably incorrect English idiom.
Luciana: Sorry, can’t talk—too busy pulling this fork out of my back!
I hate the fact that I’m hurting her, especially because I know what it feels like to be left at her age. It’s not like Luciana expected me to stay with her and her dads forever—we even joked about how terrible her next tutor would be compared to me—but this abrupt exit isn’t ideal. If I could explain my reasons to her, I know she’d understand. After all, she knew how I felt about James.
I try to call her several more times, but she’s obviously not ready to talk. Eventually, she blocks my number, and Diego tells me to give it time. She’ll cool down, he assures me, though I fear that’s not the case. Luciana is headstrong and stubborn. All I can do is hope that one day she’ll understand my decision to stay in Texas.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Against Ellie’s advice, I try to call James first thing the next day. I’m sitting on the floor in my room with sticky notes spread out around me.
The green ones are covered with all the things I want to say to him:
I’m sorry!!!!
I’m not going back to Spain!
Our timing sucked, but I want a second chance!
Please, let’s sit down and talk.
The red ones are covered in the things I absolutely mustn’t say to him:
How many times did you and Lacy bang??
Was she good? Better than me?
When do you want to get married? What should we name our kids?
Finally, on a small note near my foot, there are three words I’m not sure I’m ready to say, but they’re there, just in case.
The sticky notes are necessary because I’m scared that once the call clicks on and his deep voice filters over the line, I’ll lose my cool. I want to be prepared. I want to sound eloquent and sure of myself. The rings drone on and on, and I unconsciously start to crumple one of the sticky notes. I freak and try to flatten it again, but my sweaty palm smears the pen. I’m sorry now looks like a jumbled mess of gibberish. The call rings one final time and then jumps to voicemail.
BEEP
“James! Hi! It’s Brooke calling again. I was hoping to reach you so we could set up a time soon to sit down and talk.” My sticky notes jump out at me. “I’m sorry! And I’m not going back to Spain! And I would really like a second chance! Did I already say this is Brooke? I can’t remem—”
The voicemail cuts off and when the little automated voice asks me if I’d like to rerecord my message, I jump at the opportunity and just delete it all together. So much for my sticky notes helping me sound eloquent.
I try his phone twice the following day, but the calls go straight to voicemail. He’s ignoring me on purpose, just like Luciana. They should probably start an I Hate Brooke fan club.
I’m now up to four unanswered phone calls, and as the number grows, it sounds more and more pathetic. Even Ellie agrees, but I can’t give up; I just need to change my tactic.
I come up with a diabolical plan while I’m shampooing my hair later that night, and I shout for Ellie to come in so I can relay it her.
“Did you get it?” I ask over the sound of the shower.
“Yeah, it isn’t that complicated,” she says, sounding less than impressed.
“Who cares?!” I say as I rinse my scalp. “Diabolical plans don’t have to be complicated, they just have to work.”
“Yeah, no shit. I’m just saying, why did I have to come in here and see your naked butt just to jot this down? You could have remembered it.”
No. It’s a universal truth that all good ideas generated in the shower are forgotten as soon as the water cuts off.
“Do you think it’ll work?” I ask hopefully.
“Sure thing,” she says, appeasing me. “But just in case, use some of that deep conditioner I have in there. That way, when this doesn’t work and he rejects you, at least your hair won’t lose volume like your heart will.”
She’s wrong. It will work, as long as Beth is willing to play her part. I call her first thing the following morning.
“Good morning, you’ve reached BioWear. This is Beth speaking.”
Her voice is chipper and upbeat. It fills me with hope for what I’m about to ask of her.
“Beth, hi! It’s Brooke.”
“Brooke Davenport?” She sounds surprised, and I guess she probably should be considering how awkward our last exchange was.
“Yes, that Brooke. How have you been?”
“I’m good, thanks for asking,” she answers tentatively. “James isn’t in the office yet, if that’s—”
“No, no. Actually, I called to talk to you.”
“Oh, okay.” Her voice sounds hesitant. “What can I do for you?”
I take a deep breath before laying out my plan to her. It doesn’t take long, and I try to speak quickly considering she probably has a busy schedule that doesn’t include scheming behind her boss’ back.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asks after I finish. “Why don’t you just try calling him?”
“I have tried, but he won’t answer.”
She hums in sympathy. “Yeah, he can be pretty stubborn when he wants to be.”
“That’s why I need your help.”
“You know this could get me fired,” she points out.
I cringe, feeling terrible for putting her in this position in the first place. “I completely understand if you don’t want to be part of it.”
“I didn’t say that,” she says quickly, then after a long, strained pause, she sighs. “Fine. Tomorrow. I’ll put it on the schedule, but you’re taking the fall if this turns out badly.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you! I owe you, Beth, and if he gets mad, you can tell him I threatened your life!”
“I’m doing this for him,” she clarifies, ensuring I know where her loyalties lie. “Last year, when you begged me not to tell him you called, I felt terrible keeping that secret for you. For months after you left, he moped around this office. I thought he was never going to break out of that fog, and…well, he never really did, but things got a little better, manageable—but Brooke, if you’re here now to just stir the pot again, you need to spare him the trouble. He puts up a good front, but he’s one of the most sensitive men you’ll ever meet.”
I don’t take her warning lightly.
“I promise I won’t screw it up again.”
At least, that’s not part of my diabolical plan.
…
The following night, I pause outside the front entrance
to Twin Oaks Country Club. The ornate front doors are made of solid wood and carved with incredible attention to detail. They’re designed to feel imposing, and it works. I know it’s a trick, and yet I can’t seem to make myself step past them. Inside, James sits in the main dining room, waiting for a business associate who will never come so he can have a meeting that was never real. It’s a trick, and a weak one at that, but it’s the only way I could ensure he would be here, alone, and hopefully ready to listen.
I take a deep breath and finally enter. It’s very strange to walk through a place you used to work as a civilian. Dinner service is in full swing, and I have the irrational fear that Brian is going to throw a polo at me and tell me to refill waters. Ellie’s manning the hostess stand, and when she sees me arrive, she nods her head toward the dining room and mouths, Good luck. I turn and my stomach flips when I see James sitting alone at a table for two near the fireplace. A part of me feared he wouldn’t show up, even under the guise of a pretend meeting, but there he is wearing an impeccable navy blue suit. He’s added all the required accouterments—pocket square, tie clip, watch—and he’s never looked more handsome or more unattainable. It’s enough to make me want to turn around and run back home. He’s going to be a formidable opponent, and maybe I’m not quite ready to face him yet. I glance down and reassess my outfit. Nothing in my suitcase was nice enough, so I raided Ellie’s closet. Her flirty blue dress and nude, strappy heels are sexy, but are they enough?
I look back up to find James checking his watch, and his handsome features contort into a frustrated scowl. I’m late thanks to Austin traffic, and it doesn’t help that half of the wait staff recognizes me as I begin to weave through the dining room. They want me to stop and chat, but I smile politely and keep it moving.
I’m a few feet away from stepping into his line of sight when another member of the club—an older, well-dressed man—walks up to James’ table and claps him on the shoulder. James glances up and smiles, offering a handshake and a few words I can’t hear. I falter, unsure if I should proceed or not. I don’t really want an audience for this conversation, but I can’t delay any longer. I don’t want him to use my tardiness against me.
I have no choice but to continue.
“I hear you’ve been working on your short game,” the older man says.
James chuckles. “If only to distract from how I’ve been slicing it off the tee the past few—”
I step up to the table, drawing James’ brown eyes to me midsentence. His friend turns as well, and their reactions are polar opposite. I get a warm, welcoming smile from the older man and a confused, angry scowl from James. His hard gaze rakes over me, and my knees actually quiver.
“What are you doing here?”
I swallow and speak up in a barely audible whisper. “I came to see you.”
His friend clears his throat and extends his hand out to me. “I’m Leonard West. Pleased to meet you.”
“Brooke Davenport.”
His eyes light up. “Ah, are you Brad’s daughter?”
I nod, too caught up in the moment to manage a smile.
He scans back and forth between James and me. “And you’re a friend of James?”
“Yes,” I reply cautiously.
When James doesn’t speak up to confirm that fact, I add, “Well, I think I am.”
Leonard chuckles good-naturedly. James exhales a long, defeated sigh, obviously too much of a gentleman to toss me aside in front of an audience. He tells Leonard he’ll catch him on the links sometime soon. When we’re alone, I glance at the empty seat, wondering if it’s still a good idea to sit down.
James, having followed my gaze, hardens his own and shakes his head. “I’m afraid our reunion will have to wait. I have a business meeting.”
I draw in a tortured breath before working up the nerve to reply, “Exactly. Let’s talk business—unfinished business.”
He leans back in his chair, surveying me with a bemused scowl. “What do you mean?” He connects the dots before I can explain, shaking his head and waving away his question. “Beth.”
He tosses his napkin on the table and surges to his feet, prepared to leave after all the work I did to get him here.
“James! Please…please hear me out.”
I wish so badly that we were in private. I’m aware of the other diners around us, and now I wish I’d concocted some way to have this meeting somewhere else, but it’s too late now. This is the opportunity I’ve been given, and I won’t let it go to waste.
A muscle in his taut jaw shifts as he clenches down, no doubt trying to keep his temper in check.
I knew he wouldn’t like being tricked, but what choice did he give me? The only other option was to camp out at his house until he finally showed his face. This, while unbearably awkward, is at least efficient. By the time we walk out of this dining room, I’ll have my answer about how he feels for me one way or another. He’ll either give me a second chance or he won’t.
His gaze shifts to the door and my heart drops. He’s actually going to leave. He takes his first step just as Marissa strolls up with a small notepad in hand. She’s been assigned as our waitress, no doubt on purpose.
“Good evening!” she announces cheerfully. “My name is Marissa and I’ll be taking care of you tonight.” If she thinks it’s weird that we’re both hovering beside our chairs instead of sitting at the table, she doesn’t let on. “Can I get either of you a glass of wine? We have some excellent new appetizers.”
James shakes his head sharply. “I won’t be staying for dinner.”
Marissa beams, unbothered by his sharp tone. “Then wine it is. Red or white?”
“White,” I snap quickly, hoping he’ll feel compelled to stay if I order us a drink.
We both turn to him and wait on baited breath to see what he’ll do. He doesn’t nod or agree, but he does yank his chair out and take a seat. I let out a relieved sigh and follow suit. We sit across from each other in tense silence as Marissa sprints off for the wine and returns in record time.
“I know you mentioned you wouldn’t be staying for dinner, but our chef would love your opinion on some new starters, Mr. Ashwood. I’ll bring them out, courtesy of the club, of course.”
He isn’t amused by her meddling, but I love her for it. She pours our wine quickly and then dips in a little bow before leaving us alone to talk.
I reach for my glass of wine and realize a moment too late that my hand is shaking. It’s evident to the both of us, so I clench it back and hide it beneath the table. I don’t need wine that badly anyway.
“I’ll give you until the food arrives to explain the purpose of all this cloak and dagger,” he announces sharply.
Jesus, an elevator pitch. I’d hate to face him in a conference room.
“Oh! Right. Um, well you s-see…” I stumble over my words in my effort to explain myself before Marissa returns. The appetizers won’t take long, especially if the kitchen knows they’re going to Mr. Ashwood’s table. I fight back a cringe. It’s not nearly enough time to vindicate myself. This could take all night, but his rigid expression and hard frown prove he intends to keep his word. “I br-brought you here because I wanted to let you know I’m not going back to Spain.”
He arches a brow. “I’m sure your family is happy about that.”
He doesn’t seem that enthused, and I realize I’m going out of order. My well-planned speech has turned to scramble in my brain.
“Oh no! You see—well, that is, I’m not going back to Spain because I want to give us a second chance.” Wrong, unfiltered words spill out of my mouth as quickly as they come to mind. I feel like I’m going to explode in my attempt to gain his forgiveness before he leaves. “I should have never left like I did. When you asked me to stay, that was—that took bravery, and I was so stubborn and set on the idea of leaving.”
His gaze flicks over my shoulder and my heart rate kicks up—surely the appetizers aren’t already on their way?
“There’s Ma
rissa now—”
I lean forward over the table. “James! Please!” I cry desperately. This is ridiculous. If he really intends to get up and leave the second the food hits the table, I won’t let it arrive. I’ll fling it out of Marissa’s hands before she has the chance to put it down in front of us. “Honestly, we can’t keep doing this to each other! For once we both need to put our pride away at the same time. I just want you to see that I still care and I know you do too! Do you really have no interest in giving this a second try?”
“Why should I? What’s changed from when you left?”
“Everything!” I insist, pleading. “Everything. I left you last year in such a terrible way, but in the long run, I think it was for the best. I had growing up to do. Can’t you understand that? At times it was unbearable being apart from you, but it brought me so much clarity about my life, about my mom, about where I want to be in five years.” When he doesn’t make a move to respond, I continue, breathless. “You asked me that once, where I want to be in five years. Don’t you remember?”
His eyes soften and he nods, just once.
“Well my answer has changed. I don’t really care where I am or what I’m doing, as long as I’m with you. Surely you still have feelings for me deep down in there somewhere. You’ve just covered it up with all this—” I fling my hands in the air. “This pain.”
I heave a heavy sigh and wait for his response. After all that, he must have one, but he sits in silence, gazing at me intently as if working something out in his mind. It doesn’t look like a good sign.
I clench my fists, digging my nails into my palms as I try to stave off defeat. He wants to push me away for good because that’s easier than forgiveness, but I won’t let him do it. My voice shakes when I say, “I came here today with my heart in my hand. I came here because I think I’m in love with you, and I won’t leave until—”