by Kelly Rimmer
“The whole point of this discussion right now is that I won’t ‘wave my penis around in front of you!’” I exclaim. “Sex is never casual to me, and it sure as fuck isn’t anything like casual when I’m with you. That’s the whole point, Jess. And do you seriously think if we got married I’d expect you to behave like a Stepford wife? You haven’t been compliant for more than a single second in your whole damned life! I wanted to commit to you, not give you a lobotomy!”
“Let me say this in simple terms so it will sink in through your thick skull. You cannot trap me. I do not want a future with you,” Jess snaps. She stands, her shirt falling open, revealing a delicious sneak peek of skin I desperately want to touch, but won’t. And can’t, because she points furiously to the door. “Get out, Jake. You don’t respect my wishes, you don’t get to be here.”
“Jess—”
“Get out!”
She sounds angry, but I can see in her gaze that it’s more than that. She’s disappointed. Disappointed in me.
And the worst thing is, I realize she’s absolutely right. She told me she regretted the way things ended—she did not say she’d changed her mind and was suddenly willing to give me a long-term commitment. I arrogantly assumed I could convince her to change her mind.
I considered it “wooing” her . . . reminding her. But in truth, I was actually just trying to convince her to give me what I want.
More of her.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” I start to say as I rise, but she snorts incredulously.
“No we fucking won’t. I don’t want to see or hear from you ever again.”
Okay, I know I fucked up, but that seems like an overreaction. She’s really angry—maybe angrier than I’ve ever seen her. I have to fix this—I just have to figure out how.
“Jess . . .”
“Get the fuck out!”
I sigh and leave her apartment—not because I want to, but because she told me to, and maybe it’s time I start listening to her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Jess
THAT ARROGANT BASTARD isn’t going to get tears out of me this time.
I wanted this extra time with him. I needed it. Goddammit, I’m going to have to tell Mitch he was right and he’s going to gloat for years, and that isn’t even the worst of it. The worst part is that I thought I had more time with Jake, and now I don’t, because he was trying to control me and that’s number one on Jess’s list of unforgivable sins.
I strip and crawl into bed, and in the darkness, try to figure out if he actively deceived me about what he wanted out of these weeks with me, or if I just wanted an excuse to spend time with him so I heard what I wanted to hear.
And why is that, Jess? Why were you so desperate to claw back one more time with him?
“Shut up, brain,” I mutter into the darkness, and roll over, determined to sleep.
THURSDAY PASSES IN a blur. It’s still raining. This kind of endless rain sucks the color out of the city and usually makes me feel depressed, only I like it today, because the weather actually suits my mood. I snap and snarl my way through my day at the office and swing wildly between thoughts of blocking Jake’s number and secret wishes that he’d reappear with a low-carb doughnut.
I really could go for a low-carb doughnut. My emotions are all over the place, and the idea of comfort food sounds pretty fucking good right about now.
I haven’t seen Abby for a few days, so I visit her at the hospital after I leave the office. I stay awhile, but her parents are there so the room is crowded. Besides, while Mrs. Herbert fusses over Abby, I feel like an intruder. I’m not really sure I should be there at all while she has her real family in town.
“It is a bit cozy in here with us all here,” Marcus chuckles, when I say I should probably go. “Why don’t I take you down past the NICU on your way out?”
Oh, hell no. Not today.
“Uh.” I scramble for an excuse and come up with nothing. When the moment stretches too long, I raise my chin and just say, “Not today, Marcus. Thanks.”
I almost run for the exit after that. Fuck, I wish I’d told Abby about Tristan before. It really does feel too hard now, but sooner or later, she’s going to get offended by my lack of enthusiasm to visit the twins. I actually can’t wait to see Jessie and Clementine again, but I’m painfully aware that the NICU isn’t the place for me to do it. The second those babies graduate to less intense accommodations, I’ll make up for lost time, but for now, I might just have to keep myself away.
It rains again on Friday. No one helps me with my umbrella or passes me a coffee when I step outside—and that caffeine would have been super helpful this morning because I’ve hardly slept.
Also, I’m genuinely pissed off that I miss Jake, but I really do. There’s a six-foot, six-inch hole in my life, and I can’t believe I became attached so fast, without even hitting the sheets with him. It’s beyond irritating, especially when I catch myself constantly watching my phone. It’s been a day and a half now. Surely he’s going to make contact soon.
As the hours pass, it gradually begins to dawn on me that I did tell Jake I never wanted to hear from him again. Maybe I meant it at the time. Or maybe I just assumed he wouldn’t listen.
I’m in a horrible mood all morning, and as she leaves the office after she brings me my lunch, Gina closes my office door behind her and keeps the rest of my staff away for the rest of the day.
Smart woman, that Gina.
Just after 4:00 p.m., my phone sounds and I nearly drop it in my haste to check it.
Mitch: I assume you’re busy playing Russian roulette with your emotions tonight—aka hanging out with Jake, in case you didn’t get the brilliant analogy. But if you aren’t, I’m going to one of those stupid publishing parties you hate and you’re welcome to join me.
My heart sinks. I really was hoping it was Jake, and even that hopefulness pisses me off. The last thing in the world I want to do is go to one of Mitch’s literary engagements. There’s always plenty of free booze, but Mitch is ultra-protective of his pseudonym and I always find it all a little ridiculous. I don’t even know why he goes to these things given that no one knows who he is or why he’s there and he spends a lot of time ignoring the awkward silence after he introduces himself as a writer and then refuses to answer any questions about his books.
I’ve come to the conclusion he either enjoys the mind-fuck of having this immense secret, or he’s trying to keep his own ego in check by forgoing all of the hero worship of his fans. Either one is entirely possible. Mitch is a complex kind of guy. I met him just before his first book deal. I’ve watched his evolution from barista-living-in-a-shitty-apartment-with-two-other-dudes to Park Avenue penthouse dweller with a penchant for designer clothes and money to burn.
Our long history isn’t why I know his pen name. I actually know his story only because in the aftermath of my admission to him about Tristan, I guilted him into telling me. And holy shit, wasn’t that a shocking day? I think I gave Mitch emotional whiplash when I told him about my son, but then he dealt that same treatment right back when he told me what he wrote. I’d already read three of his books without even realizing it. Clearly, I’m victim to my own small-mindedness, but never in a million years would I have guessed a guy wrote those stories.
Anyway, I really don’t feel like going to something like this tonight, but by the same token, I’m just going home to sulk, and I really hate to let Mitchell down. He doesn’t like to take real dates to these parties, so it’s one of the duties I’ve taken on as his official wing-woman slash keeper of all of his secrets.
Jess: I’ll come. What time?
Mitch: No plans with Jake?
Jess: I’m definitely not saying you were right to be concerned, but no, no plans with Jake.
Mitch: Siri, remind me to buy bulk Kleenex and Xanax.
Jess: You’re so funny. Not.
Mitch: I’ll have the driver swing by your place about 8:30 p.m. Wear something fancy.
&nbs
p; APPARENTLY, THIS IS one of the swanky parties, because Mitch arrives in a fully stocked limo.
“You look ridiculous,” I say, sweeping my gaze over his navy suit. He opens the car door for me, then joins me after I slip inside. The limo pulls out into the traffic. And for the record, Mitch so does not look ridiculous; he looks fantastic and he knows it. But Mitch and I have developed the kind of dynamic I always wished I had with my brother—we constantly give one another shit for no apparent reason.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” Mitch says. “I’m genuinely worried about my irresistibility leaving the house like this. Pretend to be my girlfriend if I get mobbed by women, please. Also, what happened with Jake?”
“No comment.”
Mitch reaches toward the bar, pours me a glass of wine and hands it to me. I sip it greedily.
“Given I know wine is basically your truth serum, I think I’ll ask again when you finish that,” Mitch decides. I nudge him playfully with my foot, then sigh.
“He wants forever.”
“And the sky is blue,” Mitchell says. At my blank look, he shrugs. “Oh, sorry. I thought we were saying things that are fucking obvious.”
“I honestly thought he wanted a fling. I’m still not sure if he outright lied to me or if I just heard what I wanted to hear, because I really did not realize he was hoping I’d agree to keep seeing him after he goes back next weekend. I know we’ve agreed I’m an insensitive cow, but believe me, Mitchell—I’d never have agreed to spend time with him if I knew he was angling for more.”
“Sorry, Jess,” Mitch murmurs. I give him a pointed look, waiting for the I told you so, but he surprises me. “I really am sorry. I know things with you and Jake are complicated, but I like how happy you are when he’s around. And vice versa, I guess. I was really hoping you were right and you two could spend these weeks together without anyone’s emotions getting shredded.”
“We only had a few days together this time. I’m fine. Frustrated and a little pissed off at him, but I’m fine.”
“He means well.”
“Of course he does. He’s Saint Jake, he always means well. But that doesn’t make this any less shitty. What’s this dumb party we’re going to tonight?”
“It’s a book launch.”
“What book?”
“My new one.”
My jaw drops. For just a split second, he looks a tiny bit self-conscious.
“Mitch, are you fucking kidding me?”
He shrugs and sips his whiskey.
“Why didn’t you invite me earlier?”
“I wasn’t going to go. I changed my mind this morning, decided it should be a lark.”
“But . . . How does this even work?” I ask him. I’m genuinely confused.
“Well, because the last book did so well, the publisher wanted to throw a party.” He shrugs. “It’s like a birthday party. But for a book.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Do people know it’s your book? Are you actually admitting it’s you now?”
“Oh, fuck no,” he laughs softly. “I think the publisher likes the mystery around my identity as much as I do. My editor is doing a reading. And the crowd will be authors and publishing people, so I’ll just mingle and drink like everyone else. When Petra finishes the reading, I’m going to start a standing ovation, and then when we’re mingling after, I’m going to constantly say how brilliant this mysterious B. W. Garrison really is.”
That’s right, Mitchell Cole, my best guy friend, is one of the most successful romance novelists in the world. His books are steamy and emotional and wildly popular—straddling the line between literary fiction and genre romance, read by men and women alike . . . although, I get the impression his female readership is particularly wild for them. Several of his books have been blockbuster movies, his last release sat on the NYT list for months, and if I have to read another fucking article or internet forum speculating about who might be hiding behind the pen name, I’ll barf.
The only people in the world who know who he really is are his editor, his lawyer, his agent and me. His family and other friends do know he’s a writer, but despite many attempts to convince him to spill the details, they still don’t know the genre or his pen name. Despite his ridiculously oversize ego, Mitch is still determined to keep it that way.
“You’re such a weird fucker, Mitchell Cole,” I say, shaking my head.
He grins at me.
“Guilty as charged. That’s exactly why you and I get along so well.”
MITCHELL DOES KICK OFF a standing ovation after the reading. He rises, slow clapping with an intensely awed expression on his face, and before I know it, the entire party is on their feet. We mingle afterward, with Mitch introducing himself with a vague reference to working “in publishing,” then sidestepping further questions by sparking intense discussions about how brilliant “B. W. Garrison” is. At one point, he even tries to start a rumor that his romance novels are actually the work of a previous winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, and I nearly spit my drink all over the poor journalist he’s chatting with.
As the night drags on, I find myself hanging on Mitch’s arm, inadvertently acting as his security guard to ensure he doesn’t accidentally spill the secret. Despite his antics, I’m certain that Mitch doesn’t give away his real identity because no one would assume this rolling drunk, pretentious idiot is sensitive enough to write the kinds of books B. W. Garrison writes. And when the party starts to wind down, I pour him back into the limo and take him home.
“Are you . . . sober?” he asks as I unlock his apartment door and help him inside. Even through the thick slur, he sounds shocked about this turn of events. I slip my shoes off, and sigh in relief as my bare feet hit the carpet.
“I am,” I admit. Two glasses of wine all night does not a drunk Jess make.
“Why?”
“I didn’t feel like drinking.”
“There has not been a day when you didn’t feel like drinking in all the years I’ve known you.”
I crack a reluctant smile, then admit, “Well, I kind of wanted to look after you, given you have been incredibly drunk since about half an hour after we arrived at the party. Plus—” I sigh heavily, then shrug “—I was scared I’d drunk dial Jake.”
“Ah,” Mitchell says wisely, then he trips over his sofa and ends up sprawled on the floor of his living room. I walk quickly to his side, then stare down at him. Once I’ve ascertained that he’s not actually injured, I laugh. Loudly. He peers up at me, but his gaze grows sad.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him.
“I want you to be happy,” Mitch says. He looks like he’s going to cry. Oh God. I’ve seen super emotional Mitch a few times over the years. It’s not my favorite side to him at all.
“I am happy,” I say stiffly.
“Happiness isn’t always uniform across all of the spheres of a life. You can be very happy with your job and your apartment and your lifestyle and your life in general, and even then, still miss someone enough that there’s a part of you longing beneath the surface. You say you don’t want to be tied to anyone, but whenever Jake Winton enters the picture, you light up like a Christmas tree. Joy radiates out of you. It’s beautiful until it ends and then you have to pick up the pieces and I don’t understand why you won’t consider settling down with him. You two are so beautiful together when you aren’t breaking one another’s hearts. It’s like music, Jess. Like an orchestra is playing in your soul just because he’s in the room with you.”
“Do you want me to get your laptop?” I ask him impatiently. “If you wrote that down, it would be a great opening paragraph.”
“I just love you. You’re my best friend.”
“No, Mitchell, we are not doing this,” I groan. “I love you too but if you get all mushy on me now I’m going to leave you there to sleep.”
“Here is fine, actually,” he says, and he closes his eyes.
I soften just a little, and crouch to brush h
is hair back from his forehead as I murmur, “At least let me help you up onto the sofa. You’ll have a sore back tomorrow otherwise.”
“I feel no pain.”
“I’m sure you don’t. But you’re going to sober up sooner or later, and then trust me, you will feel pain if you sleep down there.”
He lets me pull him up onto the sofa and then I leave to retrieve a duvet and pillow. By the time I come back to him, he’s snoring like a buzz saw. I tuck him in like he’s a vulnerable child, then scrawl him a note.
You’re an idiot. Text me when you wake up.
SINCE I’M OBVIOUSLY not going to brunch with Jake now, I decide to sleep in on Saturday morning. My brain does not get the memo, and I’m wide awake and lying in bed staring at the ceiling by 9:00 a.m. when Mitch texts me.
Mitch: Kill me now. Did I embarrass myself last night?
Jess: You sure did. I have the videos to prove it.
Mitch: Can you get your programming team to develop a sarcasm font for texts? I can’t tell if you’re joking.
Jess: I am joking. You drank the party dry, convinced a few dozen people that you’re B. W. Garrison’s biggest fan, and then I dragged you home, where you fell over the sofa, soliloquized about all the ways I’m miserable without Jake and then passed out.
Mitch: Sounds like a great night. Wish I could remember it.
Jess: Coffee?
Mitch: I will love you forever if you bring me coffee right now.
Jess: I’m on my way. Just know that if you start that drunken “I love you” shit again, I’m going to pour the coffee on your crotch.
I let myself into Mitch’s apartment half an hour later to find him right where I left him. He’s lying on the sofa, eyes closed, but when I approach, he cracks his eyelids open just a little.
“Marry me,” he says as he sits up and reaches for the coffee. I groan.
“Not you too.”
“Did he propose?” Mitch asks, eyebrows high. There’s a crease down the left side of his puffy face from the seam on the sofa and he looks ridiculous, but also miserable enough that I can’t tease him about it. Instead, I sigh.