by Kendall Ryan
But he did hear you out. He did forgive you.
I tell that annoying voice in my head to shut the hell up. Dominic also spoke to me like I meant nothing to him. He tossed money at me like I was a whore. And then I was so desperate for his forgiveness, I spent days afterward groveling.
No. I’m done making excuses for his behavior. I can’t put more effort in than he—
When the menu tears in my hands, I swear under my breath and tuck it under the little succulent centerpiece, hoping no one noticed. Now I’m turning into a crazy person . . . sitting alone in a café, destroying private property and muttering to myself.
I stare out the window, watching the hustle and bustle of the street. With each passerby, I imagine what it would be like to be that person. The man walking his tiny round dog. The woman on her morning jog. The teenagers locking their bikes across the street. Simpler lives.
What would I trade for a life with fewer complications? I could do without the couch I’ve come to associate with a perpetually stiff neck, or I could trade in my homophobic father. Instead, I have a roller coaster of emotions inside me and a complicated relationship with a man I can’t seem to say no to.
While all of these thoughts rattle in my brain, a tall iced coffee lands before me, followed by a handsome twenty-year-old.
“Hey, sis,” Michael says, all smiles. He takes off his blue beanie with a sigh and leans back into his chair. His hair is a mess, and when I lay eyes on him, I smile for the first time all morning.
“Hey, crazy hair.” Smiling, I reach over the table and pat the stray tufts down.
“I barely slept,” Michael admits, looking up at me through his lashes as I attempt to finger-comb his bangs out of his eyes. “I didn’t shower so I could sleep in.”
“Ew, is this sex hair?” I grimace dramatically, wiping my hand on his shirt.
Michael shrugs with a cheeky grin. I’m glad someone is in a happy relationship.
“Is that promotion hair?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. I have my hair up in a messy bun, like it always is when I’m not working.
“Yep, this is my eighty-grand-a-year look.” I smirk.
Michael’s eyes go wide. “Whoa, really?”
“Thereabouts,” I say. Is it inappropriate for me to share my salary with my struggling-artist brother? Before I can answer the question for myself, Michael does.
“You are so cool. You . . . wow. You deserve that,” he blurts, his eyes shining with emotion. “You’ve always deserved it. Finally someone sees that!”
“I’m not so sure,” I mutter.
“What do you mean? Your boss must think you’re the best if she gave you that salary.”
“He. And no, I don’t think he thinks I’m the ‘best,’” I argue with aggressive air quotes.
Michael waits for me to continue, sipping on his iced coffee.
“He’s a really complicated person,” I say. “One minute I think I know what he wants, and the next I realize I’m completely wrong.”
“That’s annoying,” Michael says.
That’s one word for it. Can I tell him everything? I rub my thumb on the stains on my coffee cup.
Michael takes my hand. “Presley, are you okay?”
“Yeah, why?” I ask with a very unconvincing quaver in my voice. I have to be strong for Michael. I can’t break down in front of him.
“What’s going on? What happened with that guy you were seeing? Did my advice help?”
I laugh, a tear escaping my eye and landing with a soft splash on my hand. If only it were that simple. “It’s complicated.”
“You said that. Come on, Presley. Tell me. We’re the only family we’ve got,” Michael pleads, his hand warm against mine.
I finally raise my eyes to his. “My boss is the guy I was seeing.”
I can see the color drain from Michael’s face. Oh God, what have I done?
“Did he hurt you?”
“No, no. Not like that. It was entirely my choice. As soon as I met him, I fell for him. If you knew him, you’d understand. He’s so handsome, and he’s really committed to his work and his family. And the way he speaks, it’s so honest. I got to see it firsthand as his intern. So I fell for him. Hard. And I thought . . . well, I thought he was falling for me too.” The words pour out of me as freely as my tears.
Michael hands me his napkin, and I blow my nose wetly into the scratchy paper.
“If he didn’t fall for you, he’s an idiot. You’re the best person I know,” he says quietly. “You deserve someone who’s gonna treat you right.”
I smile weakly. Why can’t everything be so simple?
“Are you going to keep the job? I can drop out, you know. I’ll get a job at the club. I know they’re looking for bartenders. Elijah says—”
“No. No way. You’re not dropping out of school. I didn’t get this job for you to up and quit,” I say firmly, and Michael stares at me.
“Sorry,” he says with a laugh. “You really sounded like Mom just then.”
My heart aches. “I miss her.”
“I miss her too. But I’m glad I have you,” he says, every bit the sweet boy he’s always been.
I couldn’t live without him.
“What are you going to do about . . .” He trails off.
“Dominic.”
“Ooh, Dom.” Michael smirks. “Is he . . .”
“Gross,” I say, smacking my brother lightly on the arm, and he giggles like a little kid.
“I’m probably going to have to talk to him,” I say with a frown. “I don’t want to. I would rather not talk to him ever again . . .” Is that true? “But I know I need to set some boundaries between us. I really like this job, and I want to stay there. I’ve been so lucky.”
“Presley, you and I both know you could get a job anywhere. I think you’re staying for other more dominant reasons,” Michael says, dropping his voice low on dominant.
I raise my hand to swat him again, and he flinches with a chuckle. “I’m trying not to think like that! He can’t return my feelings. And with everything that’s been going on in the news . . .”
“Wait, the news?”
“Yeah, there’s this scandal that’s been circulating—”
“Your boss is the escort guy?”
I visibly cringe. “Yep.” One of Allure’s escorts who went out with Dominic years ago sold her story to the tabloids.
Michael leans back in his chair with a huff, like the air has been knocked out of him. “Whoa.”
“I told you it was complicated.”
“Yeah. Sounds like the guy’s got some issues to work through. And you love him?”
My face flushes hot. “I . . .”
“I don’t judge you. I mean, Elijah was a little slut before he met me.”
“So, are you dating now?”
“We’re not putting a label on it,” Michael says, rolling his eyes. But the stroke of pink across each of his cheeks tells me otherwise.
For the rest of our café date, Michael and I talk about what’s next for both of us. He’ll be taking some contemporary dance classes next semester, which is Elijah’s focus. I’ll be traveling abroad again within the next two months, likely to the Netherlands, Dominic has informed me. Michael has assessments coming up, and I have projects to oversee. We’ve both got our work cut out for us.
When we step out of the café to say our good-byes, Michael wraps me in his arms. “I love you, you know. And not just for what you’ve done for me.”
Tears fill my eyes once again. “I love you too, Michael.” It starts to sprinkle rain, and although I already knowing he doesn’t, I ask, “Do you have an umbrella?”
“I don’t mind the rain,” Michael says with a cheeky grin. He pecks me on the cheek before saying, “It’ll pass.”
He pulls on his beanie, and I watch him run down the street toward the bus stop. My own umbrella hangs limply in my hand. I turn my face up toward the sky as it cracks open, covering me in its gray tears.<
br />
The anxiety, the pain, the reality of my feelings for Dominic . . . it all hits me at once. The rain pounds on my cheeks, mixing with my own tears. With every shuddering breath, I let the grief of losing the love I never really had consume me.
I’ll never hold him in my arms again. I’ll never braid his girls’ hair again. I’ll never feel the excitement of his eyes on me again.
Resignation washes over me, followed by a deep sadness settling in my chest. Michael’s words ring through my head, and I take a deep breath. It’ll pass.
Won’t it?
Chapter Twenty
Dominic
Monday morning at the office, all eyes are on me—but they won’t meet mine. Clusters of chattering employees in the hallways and open workspaces abruptly clam up and avert their eyes when I pass by. It’s fucking awful.
Presley avoids me like I have the plague, hiding away in her office, her face turned toward her computer. Only Beth, a true professional to the end, continues to look me in the eye and handle our business as smoothly as if that damn news story never happened.
Thank God for small miracles. And the story, to be honest, is petty and ridiculous. An escort I went out with a handful of times wanted to cash in and sold her story. There was nothing all that salacious about it, but the media latched onto it and it spread like wildfire—destroying everything in its wake—including my reputation.
Gia called from the agency first thing that morning and told me she had deleted my file and that we needed to cut all ties. I told her that was fine. I don’t plan on using her services again anyhow. But of course, the damage was already done.
• • •
By Wednesday, the story still hasn’t died down, and it’s starting to wear on me. I’d like to think I’m resilient, untouchable, but this week has been humbling, to say the least.
As I come in, Beth looks up and chirps, “Good morning, Mr. Aspen.”
No matter how early I arrive, she always seems to get here first, already perched efficiently at her desk, hard at work. It’s one of the things I admire most about her.
I breathe a sigh of relief at the normalcy of it all. With everything that’s been going on, I didn’t realize how badly I needed things at the office to feel normal.
“Good morning, Beth,” I say, attempting a smile that I’m sure doesn’t reach my eyes. “What’s on the agenda today?”
She smiles back, and hers is sincere, if not a little sad. She gazes at her computer, tapping one long fingernail against the screen as she locates the details. “You have a meeting with development at ten, procurement at one thirty, and the board of directors at three. Oh, and Kelly would like to talk to you ASAP.”
Of course, the head of PR wants yet another piece of me. All I’ve done this week so far is help her manage this fucking disaster. It’s like wading through a pile of shit—the very definition of unpleasant.
“Tell her I’ll call her by lunchtime. There are a few things I want to finish first.”
“Can do, sir.”
Inhaling deeply, I head into my office and close the door. Then I sit at my desk and stare at my computer like it’s the controls to a spaceship. Fuck . . . exactly like yesterday. All week, I’ve been so edgy and off my game, it’s been a struggle just to concentrate. My brain feels so scattered, and I can’t seem to clear it, no matter what I do.
I rub my eyes and force myself to check my email, deciding to deal with the non-scandal-related items first. Maybe less excruciating work will help me get a good flow going.
I send the financial analysis team a long list of comments and questions on their latest forecast, only to realize a second too late that I hit REPLY instead of REPLY ALL. Goddammit. I resubmit my thoughts and move on to the next email.
For twenty minutes, I attempt to write another few hundred words for the leadership article I’ve been working on, then change my mind and decide I should talk to our marketing director first. We need to refine our direction for the hotel that’s soon to be built in London.
I push my intercom’s button. “Beth, can you call Denise and tell her to stop by when she has a moment?”
“I’m . . . afraid not?” She sounds confused.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s not in the office this week.”
“What? Then where the hell is she?” I snap.
“Attending a B2B conference in Denver. You approved her itinerary several weeks ago.”
I detect a hint of reproach in her tone. Or maybe that’s just my embarrassment talking.
“Oh . . . right. Sorry, I totally blanked on that.” And not only did I forget, I had to make an ass of myself about it too.
“No problem, sir.” Her graciousness just makes my gaffe worse. “Would you like me to call her cell instead?”
“No, that’s all right. I’ll just email her about this, and she’ll see it when she gets back.”
I hang up, feeling like I’m losing my goddamn mind.
Frustrated, I massage circles into my temples. I absolutely can’t let the stress get to me like this. I need about a gallon of coffee—well, what I really need is for those fucking reporters to have kept their mouths shut, but coffee is better than nothing. I almost ask Beth to bring me some, then decide to head downstairs to the cafeteria instead. Maybe getting away from my desk and stretching my legs will help clear my head.
The crowd is at less than half its usual lunchtime peak, and I’m grateful for that, but there are still enough people that the sensation of them staring at me is almost intolerable. I clench my teeth and focus on filling a paper cup with scalding-hot black coffee, and then getting the hell out of there.
Someone walks over to me. Expecting it to be an employee thirsty for details, I reluctantly look up, only to see Oliver.
He gives me a sympathetic smile that I’m really not in the mood for right now. “How you holding up, man?”
I don’t need to ask what he’s talking about. Everyone who works in this building—maybe everyone in Seattle—has seen that story, and they know it hasn’t even come close to dying down.
“Shitty,” I reply sourly.
“Yeah, I don’t blame you.” Oliver scratches his head. “So, uh . . . what’re you gonna do about Presley?”
I kind of want to smack him, but that’s not fair of me. I knew I’d have to deal with this issue eventually.
I heave a bleak sigh. “I don’t see how there’s anything I can do other than break up with her.”
God, I’m the worst kind of idiot. How did I let our relationship get to the point where “breaking up” applies? I’m the one who told her I wasn’t looking for anything serious and I wanted to stay casual, and yet here I am, losing my shit over her—in more ways than one.
And now I have to hurt her. I’m sure I’ve already hurt her.
As I peer down into my cup, I can’t help but recall a joke Oliver once made about the way I like my coffee—midnight black—just like my soul, he’d joked. Only now I’m not even sure it was a joke. It sure as fuck doesn’t feel like one right now.
Oliver gives me a wry, sympathetic twist of his mouth. “I know it royally sucks. But for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing.”
Recalling his words in Spokane that day when he warned me away from her, warned me that she was a good girl and I was only going to ruin things, I find they now ring truer than ever. He’d have a viable career in fortune-telling if luxury hotels ever start to bore him.
“I think it’s the right thing too.” And I really do believe that.
So then why does it feel so wrong? Why is my heart jumping up and down screaming no? Why can’t I shake the sense that I’m making the biggest mistake of my life? I didn’t feel this awful after I had to stop seeing Sara. Presley and I haven’t even gotten to the actual breakup yet, and my stomach is already in knots.
Shit . . . our relationship turned way too complicated, way too fast. I promised myself I wouldn’t be like this, wouldn’t let things
go this far. And yet I didn’t have the strength to control the situation. One kiss, and I lost all control. One taste, and I threw my rules right out the window.
Oliver pulls me out of my caustic thoughts by squeezing my shoulder. “I’m always here for you, man. Anything you need, just say the word.”
“Thanks, Ollie,” I say. “Got a time machine lying around?”
He chuckles. “I wish. But I can offer some company for your misery, at least. How about we meet in your office this afternoon and talk about this over whiskey? Maybe we can brainstorm solutions.”
I snort despite myself. “Who’s we? You’re the one who drinks at work, not me.”
“Come on,” he says. “I can pour you just one finger if you’re scared. You seriously need to take the edge off before you have an aneurysm.”
I roll my eyes. “As long as you stop pestering me about it, you have yourself a deal. I’ll have a little and see if it helps. At this point, I’ll try anything.”
“Attaboy.” He looks almost smug.
“I’m free after four.”
Oliver nods. “Perfect. I’ll swing by then.”
As we walk back to the office, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Presley.
We need to talk.
My stomach tightens. This is it. I didn’t think the moment of truth would come quite so soon, but I have to face it regardless. I have to stay strong and do what’s best for both of us. Even if it eats me up inside.
Taking a deep breath, I type back:
Agreed. You pick the place.
She replies with an address I’ve never been to, along with the time of nine p.m. tonight.
I nod. Neutral territory. Outside of work hours. Makes sense.
Now I just have to figure out what in the hell I’m going to say to her.
• • •
At Oliver’s insistence, my girls and I are having dinner at his and Jess’s apartment tonight. He thought I could use a night off from my apparent self-loathing. His words, not mine.
Jess greets us at the door with a warm hug for each of my daughters and a bright smile for me. Maybe it’s too much to hope for, but I’m not sure she’s heard the news yet. I find it doubtful that Oliver didn’t tell her—they’re as thick as thieves, these two, and have been since college.