by Lauren Layne
Honestly? I’m tired of feeling. I wouldn’t mind being numb, just for a little while. I meant what I said to Ian about wanting to hold out for the fairy-tale ending, but . . . not just yet. I need time to come to grips with my feelings for Matt and embrace them, agony and all.
But . . . I’d be lying if I said Jarod’s interest hasn’t been a balm to my ego. It gives me hope to know that just because I’m alone now, just because my heart hurts now, it doesn’t mean I’ll have to be alone forever.
I’ll go to the gala with Matt if that’s what he wants, but I can’t say that I’d look forward to it. Not with this weird unrequited-love thing I have going on now. I don’t know that I’d particularly enjoy going with Jarod, either, but it would hurt less.
“I just want Matt to be happy,” I say quietly. “His career’s everything to him, and landing a client like Jarod would go a long way to restoring other clients’ faith in him.”
“Have you talked to him about it yet?”
I shake my head. “I was going to swing by the Wolfe offices later this afternoon. Kate says he’s got some free time.”
“Let me do it,” Ian says.
I blink in surprise. “Why?”
“It’s a guy thing.”
“Well, for me it’s a professional thing,” I counter. “I can’t let my client’s coworker deliver this kind of news.”
“You’re not. You’re letting your best friend talk to his best friend about a sticky situation.”
“But—”
“Sabrina.” He touches my arm again. “Trust me on this.”
I open my mouth to tell him no—to tell him that best friend or not, I handle my own problems. Always have, always will.
But then . . . have I handled my own problems? Because over the past month I seem to have gotten myself into trouble, not out of it.
Surely Ian can’t do any worse than I’ve done for myself.
“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “Talk to him.”
31
MATT
Tuesday Morning, October 17
“What the fuck? Tell me you’re joking.”
Ian takes a sip of his coffee. “Nope.”
“Sabrina wants to go to the gala with Lanham?”
“Not what I said. I said he wants to go with her.”
I suddenly have a whole new respect for the simplicity of cavemen’s thoughts, because right now, I’d love nothing better than a big stick and a cliff, just Lanham and me fighting to the death, with him going over the edge.
“This is bullshit,” I mutter.
“Did you miss the part where you get to manage all of Lanham’s money?” Kennedy says from where he leans against the wall on the far side of my office.
“Yeah, but the asshole is using Sabrina as leverage. How am I the only one outraged by this?”
“Because,” Kate says, coming through my open office door and unabashedly entering the conversation, “what he’s doing is not that different from what you did to her.”
I glare at her. “It’s entirely different. And how do you know about this?”
Kate shuts the door and shakes her head, coming to sit across from me, beside Ian. “Sabrina told me. And it isn’t different. You used her to get him. He used you to get her. You and Jarod want different things, but you still used someone else to get it.”
“The parallels really are remarkable,” Kennedy muses.
“Shut up,” I growl at him. “How are all three of you sitting there like this is fine? Like it’s no big deal that the woman I . . .”
“Yes?” Kate asks, sitting back and crossing her legs. “I’m dying to know how you’re going to finish that sentence.”
“I wouldn’t mind hearing the answer to that one myself,” Ian says. His tone is mild, but there’s a note of warning there.
I lock eyes with him. “You’ve talked to her.”
“Yes. We had lunch yesterday. That’s when she told me about the Lanham deal.”
“Fuck Lanham,” I say, leaning forward. “How is she?”
There’s a moment of silence in my office. Finally, Kennedy breaks it. “Did you just say, ‘Fuck Lanham’? As in, the unicorn you’ve been chasing your entire career?”
I ignore this, never looking away from Ian. “How is she?”
“She’s like you’d expect,” Ian says.
“What the hell does that mean?” My desperation is coming out in my voice, but I don’t care.
I am desperate.
It’s been more than a week since I’ve seen her. Talked to her. Held her. And the absence of her feels like a gaping hole in my chest.
Her email that she was still available “per our contract” had only made matters worse, shining light on the fact that I don’t want her that way. I don’t want her to spend time with me because it’s in the contract, because I’m paying her. I don’t want her to pretend to be in love with me for the sake of my bosses and my damn reputation.
I want . . .
I want her to love me for real.
She does, you idiot. You were just too chickenshit to do anything about it.
Kate leans toward Ian without looking away from me. “Is he having a moment right now?” She says it in a whisper, but it’s clearly meant for my ears.
I’m not having a moment. I’ve been having a week.
Or rather, a lifetime’s realization in a week, without a damn clue of what happens next. What do I do? How do I get her back? How do I trust that I have what it takes?
“Are your parents happy?” I ask Kate.
She blinks in surprise. “My parents?”
“I’ve met them once. They seemed happy.”
“Sure, they’re happy. Married thirty-two years next month, and they still act like they’re on their honeymoon.”
Thirty-two years of happiness.
I shift my gaze to Kennedy. “What about your parents? Happy?”
He gives me a questioning look but nods. “Yeah, they’re happy.”
I glance at Ian, who shrugs. “Everyone knows my parents aren’t in the picture, and my foster father’s longest relationship is with the Phillies. But if you’re after what I think you’re after—reassurance that a man and a woman can be happy together long-term—I can assure you that it’s absolutely possible for two people who love each other to make it work. It may not be easy. It’s terrifying as shit. But it’s possible.”
Kate pats Ian’s knee affectionately. “I can’t say I ever imagined the day when you’d play the role of love coach, but it’s an adorable look on you.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Ian is blushing just a little, but given my own predicament at the moment, I’m hardly one to give him shit.
“You know what I mean,” Ian grumbles. “I’m just saying Cannon should get over whatever moronic hang-ups he has about relationships.”
“What are your hang-ups?” Kennedy asks. “Just good old-fashioned male commitment phobia?”
“Something like that.”
My friends’ silence tells me my answer isn’t good enough.
I sigh. “Fine. My parents’ relationship is completely fucked up. It’d be one thing if they just got divorced, you know? Allowed each other to move on? Instead they just sort of accepted that their bullshit arrangement was as good as it gets.”
“Which led you to believe that that would be as good as it ever got for you?” Kate asks, sounding slightly disappointed in me.
I don’t bother to defend myself, because I’m disappointed, too. I’ve been an idiot and a coward, too foolish to see that my feelings for Sabrina aren’t terrifying because they’re wrong—they’re terrifying because they’re right.
She’s right. For me.
“What if I said no?” I ask. “What if I held her to the contract, told her not to go to the gala with Lanham?”
“You’d lose him as a client, but I don’t think that’s what you’re really asking,” Ian says.
“No, it’s not. I want to know if I still have a chanc
e with her. To fix this.”
“You’re not going to find out by forcing her into anything with that damn contract,” Kennedy says.
Kate points to Kennedy without looking at him. “For once, the cyborg gets it right. You walked away when she was at her most vulnerable. You don’t get her back by making her go to the gala with you.”
“Well, I can’t let her go with some other guy.”
“Actually, that’s exactly what you do,” Ian says.
I’m already shaking my head. “If he takes Sabrina to the gala, I get his business, and she’ll think I want to get my cake and eat it, too, or whatever the hell that phrase is.”
“Where did that phrase come from?” Kennedy muses. “Marie Antoinette?”
“No, that’s let them eat cake,” Kate says. “I think have your cake and eat it, too is in reference—”
“Guys,” I interrupt. “A little help here?”
“Okay, okay, sorry,” Kate says. “I think I get where Ian’s going with this. You let Sabrina go to the gala with the hot billionaire . . .”
I wince. The mental picture of Sabrina on another guy’s arm makes me physically ill.
“And you turn down Lanham’s business,” Ian finishes.
I suck in a breath. I knew, on some level, where they were going with this, what has to be done. But I’m not going to say the prospect of losing out on Jarod Lanham doesn’t sting.
It’s just that the thought of losing Sabrina hurts more. A lot more.
“The Sams won’t like it,” I say.
“Nope,” Kennedy confirms. “They’ll be pissed.”
“Do you care?” Ian asks.
I meet his eyes. “I care. I just care about her more.”
“Do you love her?” Kate asks, going for broke.
Love.
It’s a word I’ve never really given much thought to, partially because I didn’t think it was for me. But mostly because . . .
I’ve been terrified. Still am, to be honest. But if anyone’s worth it, she is.
Instead of answering Kate’s question, I turn my attention to the guys. “Remember a few weeks back when we were taking about . . . What did you call it? The Cinderella complex?”
“The what now?” Kate asks.
“You know . . . when a woman puts on a fancy dress, goes to a dance, becomes determined to find her Prince Charming.”
She rolls her eyes. “Uh-huh. That’s us women, all right. It’s a wonder we can even manage to fit in the hunt for the prince, what with all the powdering of our noses.”
“Okay, but we picked Sabrina for your plan because we knew she’d be immune to the Cinderella complex,” Ian says, ignoring Kate.
“Which is why I need your help,” I say, trying to maintain my patience for what feels like the most important undertaking of my life. “I need to figure out how to make Sabrina un-immune.”
“Let me get this straight,” Kennedy says. “Instead of avoiding the Cinderella complex, you want to activate it? At the cost of your dream client and potentially the cost of your job?”
I nod. “You once told me that Lanham was the thing I wanted more than anything. You were wrong.”
“You want Sabrina,” Ian says. “But for how long?”
“I want Sabrina . . . forever. For always.”
The guys look a bit shocked, but Kate merely smiles in triumph. “I knew it. You love her.”
I brace for the stab of panic, and I’m freaked out, all right, but not in the way I expected to be.
I’m not in panic over my love for her. On the contrary, loving Sabrina might just be the most sane, smartest thing I’ve ever done.
I love her. I love her more than anything.
My panic? Fear that I might be too late—that she might no longer love me.
32
SABRINA
Saturday Evening, October 21
Dressing up’s a regular part of my job—jeans are a luxury, sweatpants almost unheard of.
Black-tie, however, is a whole other ball game and one I secretly enjoy.
The Wolfe Gala is one of maybe a half dozen annual events I attend, and I’ve got a handful of dresses that meet the black-tie criteria. A sleek, classic black. A low-cut red ball gown when I need to own the room. A demure light-purple dress with lace overlay to play up the ingénue effect. A borderline dowdy emerald-green dress for when I need to fly under the radar.
When I thought I’d be attending with Matt, none of my usual dresses felt quite right. So before the weekend in the Hamptons, before everything imploded, I went out and splurged on something new.
I picked out a dress with zero agenda beyond my wanting to feel pretty. I settled on one that’s strapless and fitted up top, with a flowing A-line skirt.
The cut is simple. The color is not.
The dress is several shades of shimmering, silvery blue that create an almost ombré effect. The saleswoman had compared it to a moonbeam, and as whimsical as I thought the comparison was at the time, she’s exactly right.
I’ve let my hair down and styled it straighter than usual to mimic the sleek lines of the bodice, a small discreet set of diamond studs my only accessory.
The entire finished look is everything I hoped for.
All for the wrong man.
“More champagne?” Jarod says, touching a hand to my back and nodding at my nearly empty glass.
I smile. “Please.”
He exchanges our glasses for new ones from a passing waiter, then hands me one. “I’ve been to my fair share of fancy parties, but I’ll admit I’m impressed.”
I take a sip of champagne and survey the room. The Wolfe Gala’s been at the same museum on the West Side for the past couple of years, but they changed it up this year. It’s at a stunning mansion on Park Avenue, one only recently converted to an event space, and I’d have to agree with Jarod’s assessment.
The combination of bright-white walls, black marble floors, and chandeliers gives the room a timeless elegance, with the dark-red accents scattered around the room adding a bit of richness.
“I haven’t seen your Boy Wonder around,” Jarod says, scanning the crowd.
I take a sip of champagne to swallow back a retort that though Matt’s brilliant, he’s hardly a boy. He’s not mine to defend.
He’s not mine at all.
“I wasn’t surprised to learn he agreed to my terms, but I’ll confess I’m glad he did,” Jarod says, his gaze returning to me, drifting briefly over my dress. “I appreciate your coming with me tonight. And if I haven’t said it already, you look lovely.”
I’m relieved that the compliment seems more matter-of-fact than anything, the way one might compliment a sibling or platonic friend. In this regard, Jarod’s been a perfect gentleman all night.
I’m still not entirely sure what his agenda is, but I’m not even sure I care. Jarod Lanham is the least of my worries these days.
“How did Cannon handle the news?” Jarod asks, furthering my suspicion that his game has more to do with Matt than it does with me.
“You don’t know?” I ask, tilting my head.
Jarod’s tuxedoed shoulders shrug. “Honestly? I haven’t heard from him. I wasn’t even sure he got the news until you called to tell me you’d go with me tonight.”
I carefully hide my puzzlement. Ian called me two nights ago to let me know he’d filled Matt in on Jarod’s terms. Yesterday, I’d gotten a revised contract from Matt, terminating our agreement. There’d also been a check for the precise amount we’d agreed to.
Getting the contract and the money had been both gut-wrenching and relieving. It’s the relief I’ve been clinging to. Relief that the sooner Matt and I end this thing, the sooner I can move on.
As for the check, I’d promptly given it to Ian as a donation for his charity for underprivileged high school students. They need it more than I do, and I didn’t think I’d be able to stomach the thought of keeping a single penny from my time with Matt.
Our time together was wo
rth a hell of a lot more to me, even if it ended badly.
A middle-aged couple I don’t recognize stops to socialize with Jarod, and after he makes the introductions, I allow my mind to wander, studying Jarod as he talks, trying to figure him out.
He really is attractive, in a commanding-presence sort of way, and he wears a tux like he was born in one. He’s also considerate, smart, and has a subtle, dry sense of humor.
The whole billionaire thing doesn’t hurt, either.
And yet, no matter how hard I try, I can’t see myself with him. I can’t see myself with anyone except the one guy who’s either too scared to take a risk or too disinterested to even consider it.
Still, knowing that, I can’t help but scan the room for Matt. Even when we were at our most antagonistic, he’d always been a beacon for my attention, so though there are dozens of tuxedos in the room, I know almost immediately that he’s not one of them.
Which is odd. Attendance at this thing is pretty much mandatory for all Wolfe employees.
I’ve already seen Lara and Ian, though every time I get a free moment, they’re in conversation, or vice versa.
Jarod and I walked in with Kennedy and a tall, boring blonde whose name I’ve already forgotten.
And Kate’s not here yet, courtesy of a last-minute zipper emergency on the dress she’d planned to wear. She asked if I could set her up with a tailor who could fix the zipper and the resulting tear, but I’d done her one better: I’d hooked her up with my girl at Saks, with instructions to send the bill to Kennedy, mostly because it amused me to do so.
Distractedly, I scan the room again. Still no Matt.
Maybe he’s picking up his date.
My stomach lurches. Is he bringing a date? It didn’t occur to me to ask Ian, and I wish I would have. Though I don’t know that anything could prepare me for that. Just the thought of it makes me queasy.
Someone touches my arm, and I turn to see Lara, looking gorgeous in a long purple gown. She’s forgone her usual glasses for the evening, but her hair’s in a fancier version of her trademark ponytail, and the combination of elegant evening gown and sleek blonde ponytail is stunning.
“You look beautiful,” I say, giving her a quick hug, and then spinning my finger so she’ll show me the back of the dress. “Oh, well done,” I say approvingly, taking in the low cut that leaves her back almost entirely bare. “Poor Ian must be dying.”