by K. Bromberg
“You’re forgetting one very important fact.”
“What’s that? That he has a huge cock—”
“Yes, that’s exactly it. In the whole twenty minutes we talked, we talked about how big his dick was. You really do need help.”
“Can’t blame a girl for thinking large.” She offers me a sarcastic smile. “And that is one very important trait.”
“Well, the fact I was opining on”—I clear my throat—“was that you can make up this whole Blake and Slade fantasy all you want, but it isn’t going to happen.”
“Says who?”
“Says the fact that I left without finding out anything about him other than his name,” I say. “So even if you concocted the most beautiful love story ever, it isn’t going to happen.”
The cogs in her brain seem to click into place as she settles back into her seat. “But if you did—if fate worked in some funny way and you had his phone number—would you call him?”
“Let’s not have you make up fake scenarios and live vicariously through me, hmm?”
“I’m serious.” She gestures dramatically. “If you had his number—no, better yet, if he told you he really wanted to take you to your company retreat, what would your answer be?”
I stare at her and her ludicrous ideas with a dumbfounded look on my face. “I’d say have another glass, er, bottle of wine.”
“The answer is yes. It’s always yes.”
“Whatever.” I wave a hand at her.
“I’m serious. If Slade was standing in front of you right now, the answer would be ‘Yes, please come to my mountain retreat with me. Show everyone else up with your easy charm, nice ass, incredible smile, and huge co—’”
“You haven’t even met him.”
“I don’t have to.”
“He could be a serial killer.”
“He isn’t.” She holds her hand up to stop me from asking her how she knows that. “He’s the perfect rebound for you.”
“Oh Jesus.”
“What better way to get over stick-in-the-mud Paul than have a hot, young guy with all kinds of stamina who’d gladly ride you into finding your self-confidence again.”
“Your imagination is tireless.” The wine is hitting me, and my lips are starting to tingle.
“The answer, Blakely, would be yes.”
“You’re insane.”
“Say it with me. Yes.” She draws the single-syllable word out.
“I can say yes to you all you want, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing’s going to come of it. He was a chance meeting that’s gone and forgotten.”
“And sometimes fate works in mysterious ways.”
I roll my eyes dramatically. “Since when have you ever believed in fate?” I mutter to the one woman who grabs whatever it is she wants by the balls and takes it without asking.
She’s fearless.
And a whole lot more like who I’d love to be but can’t find the way to do so.
“I’m not handing over more wine until you say it.” Her eyes narrow in demand.
“Kels . . .”
“Say it.”
“Yes,” I say. “Sure.”
Her laugh fills the room. “I’m not buying it. I want the whole phrase: yes. It’s always yes.”
I slide an evil glance her way because I know she won’t stop until I give in. “Yes. It’s always yes,” I say in my most melodramatic voice.
“Yes!” She throws her free hand up and finally walks toward me and my empty glass. “Just you remember that! Next time you see him, you’ll say, ‘Hi, Slade. Yes, Slade.”
“Jesus. You’re—” An alert of sorts emanates from her phone, telling her that someone has just pulled up her driveway, and she groans.
Within seconds, the front door opens and then slams. We both wait for her to call out for her mom like she used to. The single word filled with excitement that she’s home and can’t wait to tell Kelsie how much fun she had at her friend’s house.
“Three. Two. One,” Kelsie whispers, knowing the tornado of walking hormones her daughter has been as of late.
I’ll just say my goddaughter and the term “bundle of joy” are as far apart as humanly possible at this point.
“Hi, honey,” Kelsie says as Jenna rounds the corner to the family room.
My heart floods with love at the sight of her. I know Kelsie is struggling with how much she loves her daughter and, at the same time, has days when she wants to tear her own hair out in frustration.
“Boozing it up again?” Jenna asks when she eyes the glasses in our hands, those gorgeous lips pulled into a sneer.
“Did you have fun at Andrea’s?” Kelsie asks with a timorous smile.
“Do you really care?” Teenage snark in full force.
I steal a glance at my best friend, knowing she’s debating if reprimanding her daughter is worth the fallout or if letting it go is just better to preserve the peace for the rest of the night.
Kelsie takes a sip of wine and sighs before giving her daughter a warning smile. “I’m going to ignore you said that.”
“I’m not,” I chime in because I can get away with more than Kelsie can since I’m not her mother. “Let me guess, you were tik-snapping and chat-tocking? Can we see some of them?” I hold out my hand for her phone.
“Eeew. No way.” Jenna takes a step out of the room in utter horror even though she knows damn well that I know it’s TikTok and Snapchat. But there’s a crack of a smile there, a hint of the sweet little girl I used to know, and for now, it’s enough. “I’ve got homework to do.”
“Good. You go do that and be responsible while your mom and I drink some more wine, talk about cute boys, and figure out how to make your life more miserable than it already is.” My smirk and shrug have Jenna rolling her eyes.
“So gross.” She huffs and then heads down the hallway and into her room, loudly shutting the door behind her.
“It’s a phase,” I say as Kelsie tips her drink to her lips.
“I know I have to pick my battles, but lately, it feels as if everything with her is an all-out war, so it’s just easier to ignore the attitude and move on.”
“Hormones, wondering if boys like you or not, the pressure of everything . . . it’s a lot for a fourteen-year-old to handle. I understand, of course, because I feel the same way most days.”
I laugh to hide behind the joke, but I know she sees what I keep hidden most days—the doubt of how I’m coping, the embarrassment and failure of not being able to make my marriage work, and more than anything, my loss of self-worth.
Her expression softens, and she looks at her wine for a beat before meeting my eyes again. “You need to let loose, B. You need to say fuck it to everything you never would have done before and just try it. What’s holding you back? Sure, you’re divorced, and damn straight, you’re flirting with forty, but you aren’t dead. You’ve dropped that ball and chain, and it’s your turn to fly.”
My raised eyebrows and heavy sigh are the only response I give her.
“Say yes. The answer is always yes.”
Blakely
“That’s just an outdated way of thinking and marketing. We need to—”
“I have years of sales data to back up the success of this marketing campaign. In the past, we’ve made a point to run the campaign sporadically, so when we do use it, it hits with a maximum punch,” I say, trying to tamp down my frustration. Heather catches it. I know she does. And the slightest smirk ghosting on her mouth says she really doesn’t care.
The worst part? The fifteen other attendees sitting in the product campaign meeting can see the look and can infer she doesn’t trust me.
Either that or they figure she feels threatened by me.
“We can definitely add it to our list of options, but it’s an old approach when we want to be progressive. The world is moving on, and yet, you . . . you seem to like the past.”
Her eyes hold mine, and the condescension in her tone has me gripping my pen so tight my fi
ngers ache.
There is an uncomfortable silence as others shift in their seats, and all I can do is nod in appreciation that she put my idea on the list.
And then I sit there and listen as every other person pitches ideas that lack substance or really even creativity.
“Okay, let’s get to it,” Heather finally says with a faux fist pump, probably tiring of hearing her own voice. Then again, maybe not. “Blakely, stay a sec, will you?”
Oh, joy.
“Sure. Not a problem.” I plaster a smile on my face and sit back in the seat I just stood from, my laptop and notebook still pressed against my chest. “What can I do for you?”
“Moving forward, if you can’t stop showing me up at our creative meetings, then I’ll have to have you sit them out.”
“I’m sorry . . .” I shake my head. “Show you up?”
“Yes. We all know you’ve been here forever. I don’t need you bringing it up constantly in front of all the new people I’ve hired. Frankly, it makes you look dated, and when I’m the one constantly trying to fight for you, it makes it that much harder to do.”
Fight for me? Does she think I buy her bullshit when I’m incessantly afraid to turn my back to her?
My pause is simply to make sure I have a lock on my cool before I speak. I need this job. I love this job. I’ve weathered incompetent bosses before. I can do it this time too.
Or so I hope.
“Experience doesn’t make me dated. My knowledge of how certain marketing campaigns and sales affect the Glam brand, which I know inside and out, should be looked upon as an added value.”
She purses her lips as she stands there, arms crossed over her chest, disdain written all over her face.
“I’m not sure how we got off on the wrong foot,” I say as I rise from my seat again and make my way toward the door where my boss of a whole four months is standing. I guess it’s up to me to be the mature one in the room. “But somehow we did. I love my job, and the last thing I want to do is show up anyone—least of all you. Besides, if I get the promotion, we’ll be sharing this responsibility so it behooves us to iron out these wrinkles.”
Our eyes hold as the silence stretches, and my palms grow clammy at the disdain etched in the lines of her face. Why does she make me nervous?
Because I’ve spent my whole career working toward the vice president of marketing position, and now that it’s just within reach, she’s the only one who can take it away from me.
“Perhaps it’s something we can work on at the team bonding retreat.” Her smile is quick and holds even less warmth. “I look forward to seeing you and your . . . husband?” She waves a hand in my direction. “I’m sorry, I forgot. You’re divorced. It’s okay if you come single. We have a few who are. We can modify some of the challenges so you aren’t alone the whole time.”
You condescending cow.
“My boyfriend will be there.” My answer is too fast, and I inwardly cringe at how pseudo desperate it sounds.
“Boyfriend?”
“Yes. Boyfriend.”
I offer a catty smile and then silently freak out the entire time I walk the length of the glass walls that house the conference room, knowing she’s staring at me.
I have no idea how in the hell I’m going to pull a boyfriend out of my ass for the retreat.
Maybe Kelsie was right. Maybe I’m sabotaging myself so that I have no other option but not to go.
It doesn’t help that, three hours after the fact, I’m still preoccupied by my lie. When I leave my office, hobo bag under one arm and cell phone held up to my ear, I cross the street completely distracted.
So distracted that, when I look up, I stop dead in my tracks the second I see them.
The person behind me bumps smack-dab into me, and a car that wants to use the turn lane I’m standing in honks its horn. It doesn’t matter, though, because all I see is them.
Paul is standing ten feet in front of me, looking as handsome as he ever did. His skin is tan, his hair is a little bit longer, and his typical white button-up shirt that I could never get him to veer from is gone. It’s been replaced by a silver one with its sleeves rolled up to the elbows and the collar unbuttoned some. He looks relaxed, and the grin spreading across his lips tells me he’s happy. I can’t remember the last time I made him look like that.
A pang hits me low in the gut. It doesn’t matter how much I hate him because I once loved him. I once adored him. I moved across the country and away from my family to start a life with him. I once put my dreams on hold—kids, the white picket fence, the whole Norman Rockwell existence—for him and his career aspirations.
All to be left with nothing.
So does it hurt to see him from afar? Hell yeah it does.
When he reaches to his left, all those pangs turn to a hand-trembling anger as he hooks his hand around the waist of the woman walking toward him. He pulls her into him and kisses her way too long. It’s the kind of public display of affection that makes anyone watching uncomfortable but also screams of intimacy and still-new love.
But I can’t move. I can’t look away. And when she steps back, I’m stunned by the sight of her. It’s the first time I’ve seen his new fiancée, and all I can think of is how much she looks like me . . . the me from twenty years ago.
As if Paul senses me the same as I sensed him, his eyes find mine. Our stares hold for a beat, his smile faltering and then widening as he presses a kiss to her cheek before pointing to me and calling out my name.
“Blakely!”
Slade
“I love her to death . . . but, man . . .”
“What? You’re a grown man who needs his space?” Lane’s laugh comes through the connection.
“My own space. Silence without the constant badgering about who I’m dating, why the past chicks weren’t good enough, how I need to find a good woman to settle down with but only after she approves. Shit, Lane, I miss her till she’s here, but when she is, I’m ready to send her back home.”
“You don’t mean that,” my cousin says.
And he’s right. I don’t. I love my parents to death, but loving them to death and having my mother take it upon herself to move in for a few weeks while I’m on suspension from work is trying my patience.
Watcha doing? Where are you going? Whatever happened with What’s-Her-Name? The one with the blonde hair and crooked toes? How come you organized your kitchen drawers like this? It’s against the flow of the space.
“The questions are endless, but I’m not going to complain about the home-cooked meals and laundry service.”
“Bastard.” He snorts. “So, other than avoiding your mom, what have you been doing?”
“I’m working on a few papers for medical publications and journals. You know me—”
“You never could sit still.”
“Never. Hey . . .” I look down the sidewalk ahead of me.
I recognize the dark hair, full mouth, and subtle sophistication. Every part of me is sucker punched by the sight of her.
Blakely Foxx.
The woman who walked away the other night.
“I’ve gotta go. A friend’s walking up,” I lie to Lane, ending the call without waiting for his response.
My first instinct is to walk over to her and put her on the spot. Ask her why the fuck she left me someone else’s business card before ghosting me in the bar last week.
No one’s ever done that before.
No one.
I shouldn’t care because, who is she anyway? A random woman amidst a million other random women in this city? Another proverbial fish in the sea?
Realizing that the confrontation isn’t worth my time regardless of how intriguing I find her, just as I make the decision to walk away, I see it. The sudden slumping of her shoulders. The emotion shoved away when she looks at the man before her, and the fake smile she plasters on her face when she turns her attention to the woman beside him. A woman who could easily be her doppelganger in every sense of the
word, save for age.
I stand twenty or so feet away, unable to tear my eyes away as I size up the situation. How the doppelganger makes a show of using her left hand as she speaks, ensuring the sun glints off the diamond on her ring finger. How she continually turns into the man, touching him and laughing too loud, as if to stake her newly minted claim.
It isn’t my business.
No damn part of it is.
And yet, I picture the look in Blakely’s eyes the other night when she went off on me. The anger mixed with frustration edged with shame and exasperation. How, when she got to the part about her ex-husband getting engaged, I could feel the hurt there.
Staring at the three of them, I can still feel it.
“Not your problem,” I mutter as I close the distance, knowing I’m going to regret what I’m about to do, but know I’m going to do it anyway.
“Blakely. Sweetie,” I say. Her head startles toward the sound of her name, and then her eyes grow wide as they land on me.
Yes, I’m the man from the bar.
But even better is the confusion etched in her expression when I step up beside her, slide a hand around her waist, and pull her toward me. “I thought we were meeting at the restaurant?”
Her hesitation allows me to finish the sentence and lean in and press a chaste kiss against her utterly shocked lips. I lift my eyebrows as I wait for her to respond, and then I decide to use the moment to turn to look at a very wide-eyed ex-husband.
Perfect.
“Oh, hey. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” I keep my hand firmly where it is on Blakely’s waist. “Slade Henderson. Blakely’s boyfriend, man, plaything. I respond to all.” I laugh, watching her ex’s face pull tight as I offer my free hand for him to shake. My smirk is one hundred percent meant to goad. “And you are?”
He stares at my hand and then Blakely. When he finally turns back to me, he reaches out and takes my hand strictly out of manners.
“Paul Foxx. I’m Blakely’s—”
“Ex-husband.” I nod and squeeze my hand on the side of her waist. “Nice to meet you in that awkward, no-one-wants-to-meet-an-ex kind of way.”
We hold each other’s stare, size each other up, and in that brief second, I can surmise he’s a smarmy, too-good-for-everyone, know-everything prick. Fucking figures.