Yet, I always knew that no matter how well she did, her working was always going to be tricky. Not just for her, but for me. I’ve never thought of myself as a control freak before, yet here I am, worrying constantly when she’s not home on time, trying to keep myself calm and not panic that she’s out there taking drugs again or getting mixed up with the wrong crowd. Whatever she's doing, Daggs is never far from my thoughts. I know I’m doing her head in, but old habits die hard and, ultimately, every single one of us has to accept that we are who we are. We have no control over the way we feel, the way we think, the way we worry or the way we protect. There’s no right and wrong; just some folk’s ways are easier to live with than others.
I keep myself busy and out of her hair as much as possible. She’s got her own little routine going on, and so have I. Now we are both working like crazy, there doesn’t seem to be enough hours in the day for us to sit around and chat as constantly as we did when she first came home. Life is moving on, but not so fast that I don’t notice the small dip she takes, just two months into receiving her very own pay slips.
Her arrival home starts to get later and later. The supply of alcohol in the house starts to increase with every few days that pass by and, most nights, she sits on the couch, curled up into a ball with a bottle in her hand. I know she thinks she’s hiding it from me, but I see the worry behind her small frowns. Something is on her mind and she doesn’t want to tell me.
I’ve done enough research on the basics of drug addiction to know that I have to trust her and give her space. It takes everything I have not to pin her down and get the truth out of her in any way I can. All I can do is hope that, in time, she will feel safe enough to know that there isn’t anything she can’t tell me, even when it comes to craving what she once had.
It’s been weeks since we’ve spoken properly, so when I walk into the living room, on the hottest day in August, to find her slumped on the couch with an empty bottle of Jack Daniels hanging limply between her fingers, my panic sets in. All the doubts I’ve been having since asking her to find work and trusting her to open up suddenly seem to scream at me WHY DIDN’T YOU LISTEN?
Before I even realise it, I’m running over to the sofa and cupping her face in both my hands. I can barely breathe and my heart is hammering hard inside my chest.
“Paris! Goose! Can you hear me?”
Her head rolls from side to side as a low, groggy groan escapes her lips. Her long lashes seem to flicker a thousand times before she scrunches her face tight together and throws her arm up to her eyes like a vampire caught out in the daylight. “Dammit, Izzy, what the fuck are you doing?”
The breath I’ve been holding in my chest blows out in relief as I fall back on my heels and look up. It takes me a moment to gather my thoughts and swallow down any anger.
“Me?” I ask softly. “I was just coming back from a long arse day at work in the hope that my best friend would be sitting here with a bright smile on her face, waiting to greet me. Instead, I walk in to find her sprawled out on the sofa, drunk as hell on a Wednesday afternoon, looking a lot like the Paris of two years ago.”
It’s clear my words catch her off guard as she peeks out from beneath her arm and scowls at me like I wasn’t supposed to say what I just did.
“What’s going on?” I ask quietly. “Should I be worried?”
“No,” she whispers in reply, running her tongue across her dry lips and back up to the roof of her mouth. She looks rougher than I’ve seen her since the early days of her return. The black mascara she was wearing is smudged, and the outline of her bright lipstick is smeared on one side. “No,” she repeats.
“Then tell me what’s happened.”
“I just… I just had a bad day. I miss people, that’s all.”
“What people?”
“People, people!”
“Your dad?”
“Our dad,” she corrects me as she closes her eyes and lets her head fall back.
Shuffling forward, I let my hand fall back to her face, run my thumb under both her eyes and sigh in complete sadness. Paris never moans about losing her father at such a young age. She never allows herself to swim in her own grief, let alone drown in it. For this to happen today, even though I hate it with every fibre of my being, well… it’s long overdue.
“I miss him, too. But you can’t do this whenever you’re feeling low. You can’t let all the hurt and heartache build up to a point that you allow yourself to relapse. That life holds nothing for you but pain, Goose.”
“I know.”
“Promise me this won’t happen again,” I say, a little too urgently, instantly kicking myself for sounding so demanding.
Lifting her arm away from her face, she lets her eyes fall open and land straight on me.
“I promise you this won’t happen again. I’ve been an idiot, but it’s a onetime thing only.”
I know there are a thousand things I could get her to say. I know there’s a world of promises she could make and even more lectures I could give about what’s right and wrong, but I’m working on the trust thing, and I know she is, too. Dropping my head onto the couch beside her, I look up through wide eyes and whisper, “I believe you. Let’s just call this Black August, move on and pretend like it never happened, okay?”
“Okay.” She nods weakly, a small smile tugging on one side of her mouth as her eyes narrow as though she can’t quite believe she’s gotten off so lightly. “Maverick?”
My hand reaches out to flick the tip of her nose lightly. I so want to see her smile instead of make her sad. “Yeah, yeah, Goose. I know.”
The quiet sigh of contentment as she rolls onto her side and closes her eyes tells me everything else I need to know. She’s going to be alright. She has to be alright.
Thirty-One
January 2009
I hate temping. I mean, I really hate temping.
I’ve been trying to look enthusiastic about being here for the last six months, but the truth of the matter is, the only time I will ever feel comfortable behind a desk is when I am writing. All that surrounds me now - the clinically clean walls, the angular, neo-modern furniture, the reflective floors and clicking of expensive heels as people walk past, the air of superiority in the men and women that work here over the outside world - I just don’t like it. It’s structured and stuffy. It makes me nervous, even though I think I hide it well behind bright, white smiles and enthusiastic nods. It isn’t me, and I can’t wait for the day until I no longer have to be here.
The clock on the wall of Colton’s Architecture's foyer doesn’t seem to be moving. I’ve been watching it for the last hour and I’m almost certain it’s remained in exactly the same position the whole damn time. With my chin resting in my palm, I narrow my eyes and mentally challenge it to do something that will surprise me. Move to five o’clock. Go on, I dare you. But that piece of crap does nothing but stare back at me like it’s the master of my freedom and only it will decide when it’s time to let me go. Spinning slowly in my chair, I reach over for my phone and cast a quick glance at my mobile screen. It’s against company policy for me to even have it on me whilst manning the reception area, but I haven’t been caught yet.
Glancing up nervously and checking my immediate surroundings, I quickly type out a standard message to Paris, a general how was work in the cafe today, and what shall we have for dinner tonight, type of text, and that’s when I hear the not-so-subtle clearing of the throat from beside me. My body flinches and my hands flail about in a panic, causing my phone to jump up in the air as I try my best to catch it, keep it under control and shove it somewhere out of sight. It isn’t long before the thing has danced its way out of my grasp completely and fallen to the polished, tiled floor with a bang.
I somehow manage to swallow the oh fuck it that is crying to be released, and that’s when I see the man next to me crouch down in his ridiculously expensive suit, pick up my phone and hand it back with a sinister grin on his face.
Mr. Ric
hard Colton, the owner and CEO of the whole bloody company, straightens up to stand beside me as I nervously accept the phone back from him and look down into the palm of my hands. Even though I stopped myself from swearing in his presence, there’s no way in hell I can stop my face from scrunching up into a tight grimace of embarrassment while he just continues to stare down on me. The silence that hangs between us is awkward to say the least, and I contemplate saying nothing at all in the hope that he will eventually decide to just shake his head in disapproval and leave, but I know in order to keep my job and not look like a twelve year-old girl who is getting told off by her father, I have to hold my own.
“Apologies, Mr. Colton. I know I’m not supposed to have my phone on me during work hours. It won’t happen again,” My eyes flickering upwards as a soft, embarrassed smile takes over my face.
His hair is flecked with grey down both sides, and his skin has been left with enough wrinkles for all to see that he’s enjoyed a good life, full of exotic, sun-filled holidays. I’ve never met a man who looks so confident in himself before, and I wonder briefly what it must be like to hold so much power in your hands and know it. As he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose for nothing but effect, I watch as a slow smile creeps up one side of his face and he narrows his eyes to assess me.
I’ve never had much to do with him before now, except for the odd act of politeness here and there, so this feels like my first full inspection from him, and all I can do is nervously wait to see if I pass.
“Isabella, isn’t it?” His voice seems to slide through the air around me like a snake through grass.
“I prefer Izzy, but Isabella is correct.”
“I prefer Isabella.”
“Okay,” I almost whisper as I swallow nervously. My cheeks flame with even more heat and I pray for some divine intervention to get me out of here.
“Are you single, Isabella?”
My eyes fly up to meet his as a frown mars my face. “Excuse me?” Richard shuffles his briefcase over into his other hand before perching his arse cheek on the desk in front of me and casually hitching up one trouser leg to allow him more movement. He’s completely intimidating and he knows it.
“I asked if you were single. It’s a simple question that requires a yes or a no answer, unless you’re the other woman in a relationship and then you are neither single nor taken.”
“I… I heard you, Mr. Colton. I’m just not sure why that is anybody’s business but my own.” I think I see a small flash of something cross his eyes, I just can’t decide if it’s annoyance, admiration or another emotion I don’t even want to allow myself to think about. His eyes narrow even further while he holds my gaze in an obvious attempt to remind me who is in charge around here. Before I allow my snark to lose me the one thing that keeps putting food in my mouth, I answer in a rushed whisper, “I’m single. I’ve been single a while.”
“Just like my son.”
I don’t answer him on that one. I don’t have anything to say. I know of his son, of course, but I have never met him. Apparently, Max Colton is one of the most creatively appreciated architects in the North of England. At the age of twenty-eight, he’s managed to build himself quite a portfolio, a lot of respect and several fancy cars that can often be heard flying down the road at ridiculous speeds for no other reason than to annoy his father. From what I’ve heard from the gossip mongers of the cafeteria, Max and Richard don’t get along very well at all, which is why I find myself completely surprised by him being mentioned at all.
“I think I’d like to set you up with him on a date. How would you feel about that?” My mouth falls open to protest or ask if he’s joking, but Mr. Colton’s eyes simply fall to the phone in my hand as he raises a brow, and that’s when I know I don’t really have a choice in the matter.
“That sounds… interesting.” I smile tightly.
“I’m very particular about who my son associates with, Isabella, so you should find yourself privileged that I’m even contemplating making this happen. I do, however, think that you could be good company for him. I’ve been watching you for a few weeks and I know that, despite breaking the odd rule here and there, you two would get along. You seem…” He pauses mid-sentence; rolling his tongue around his mouth as though testing which word feels right before he says it, “Normal. Something he seems interested in, these days.”
It’s hard for me not to burst into laughter at the description he eventually sticks with. It shouldn’t seem like a compliment and I’m sure many wouldn’t see it as anything but a slight, but I’ve been craving normal my whole life.
Richard doesn’t give me another minute to even process the whole weird as hell conversation before he slides away from the desk and assures me it’s all settled then. My feet push my chair into a spin as I watch him walk away from me, open mouthed and a little stunned. I’ve somehow managed to keep hold of my job, despite being caught out by the toughest CEO that ever lived. And I somehow landed myself a date with his high-flying son, Max. I can’t help but feel like I’ve just jumped from one fire, straight into another, with no way out at all that won’t see me getting burned.
I contemplate finding an excuse to get out of it but everything after that seems to happen too fast. The next morning, I get to work to find an email sitting in my inbox with instructions of when and where I shall be picked up by Max. The morning after, I even get a reminder from his secretary.
Before I know it, it’s three days later and I’m at home, wandering down the corridor in a full length, floaty, navy dress, which is nipped in at the waist with a coral belt. It’s way too summery for January, but according to Paris, men like women who shine like the sun on even the darkest of days. She’s adamant this blind date will be a good thing for me. I, on the other hand, can’t help but acknowledge the ball of dread that is swirling around in my stomach, making me nauseous.
Hearing Max’s second knock on the door, I reach for the handle and open it as slowly as I can, keeping my eyes focused on the floor until the very last second. I see his shoes first - obviously designer. Then my eyes slowly begin to rake up his body at a torturously slow pace. It’s looking good all the way up until I reach the collar of his shirt, where my eyes seem to pause nervously. For three days, I haven’t been able to stop asking myself why a man with such a good reputation would need setting up on a blind date at all. Will he be ugly? Will he be too short? Too huge? Will he have moles on his chin or warts on his nose? I’m so scared of the answers to all those questions that I almost refuse to look at him until I absolutely have to.
“Isabella, is it?” his voice says smoothly. The second I hear the words fall from his lips, my chin snaps upright and my gaze falls upon his bright, cheerful face.
“Izzy,” I correct him as I slide my jacket over my arms and slowly step out of the doorway. “And you’re Max, I take it?” Closing the door gently behind me, I shuffle into my coat to fight off the chill and take another quick look at him. He really is handsome, but where I think I expected to see something cocky and arrogant, there just lays warmth and friendliness. His blue eyes sparkle charmingly against the streetlights, and I can’t help but return his eager smile with one of my own and release a shaky, nervous laugh. “This is a little awkward, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, I’m Max.” He laughs with me, holding his hand out to guide me down the two steps by the door before letting me go and walking forward to open the garden gate. “And awkward is my speciality.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” I smile, following him over to his car. “It’s my speciality, too.”
“Then we should get on famously.”
“Here’s hoping,” I chuckle, running my hand through my hair and already feeling the tension in my body dilute. I don’t know what it is about him that makes me feel so relaxed, so quickly, but he isn’t what I was expecting at all. He seems nice. Nice enough for me to share a meal with, anyway. As we make our way into his fancy, over the top, sports car that I don’t even know the name of
, I let my hands fall into my lap and cast a nervous glance his way.
I’m not sure if I’m attracted to him. I’m not sure what I’m expecting at all from tonight, yet, something tells me that he’s right. We will get on famously. I just hope I can hold enough conversation and that the night goes smoothly enough, that he doesn’t ask his father to fire me first thing in the morning.
Thirty-Two
Later that night…
The sound of the door slamming shut is what must make her jump up from the sofa in a panic. I’m leaning back against it, my feet sliding out along the floor as my body slips down until I’ve become a heap of limp bones and exhausted energy. All I can do is watch her as she comes running out of the living room, down the corridor and directly into my path. Paris’ hair is a mess as her head snaps from side to side, her sleepy eyes struggling to wake up and take in where I am.
When she eventually spots me sitting on the floor with my back against the door, her face drops at the sight of me.
“What’s happened?” she asks softly, rubbing her right eye slowly before walking over and slumping her pyjama-clad body down in front of me. My face must look ridiculous. I’m certain there’s barely any make-up left on my face, and my tear-stained cheeks must make me look like I’ve been beaten with a stick.
“You do not want to know,” I choke out, leaning my head back and closing my eyes.
“You’ve been crying.”
“Yep, although it’s probably not what you think.”
“So, he didn’t hurt you?” she asks quietly, nudging herself even closer as one hand flies to my knee, giving me a gentle squeeze of reassurance.
“No. No,” I respond quietly. “No, quite the opposite. He was a gent.”
Izzy Moffit's Road to Wonderland (Road to Wonderland Series Book 1) Page 23