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Period. End.
Instead of scaring the hell out of me, this fact now delights me. Because it’s finite. A single tangible desire. If only I can convince her that we’re on the same page, that I won’t cut and run the second my feet get put to a media fire.
After all, she’s the one who advised me how to handle it.
As I sit in the hair and makeup chair, two women fuss over me, dabbing concealer under my eyes and combing my hair. I hate it, but I don’t say anything.
“Look at that. No more dark circles under your eyes. So much better, right?” One of the women tilts my chin up so my face catches the light. I notice a glow on my skin that must be due to the layer of makeup she’s been slathering on for the past half hour.
I can’t wait to be done with this whole performance so I can wash my face, put on a baseball cap, and salvage what I can of my romantic life.
A few minutes later, I sit alone in the green room of the Chantal Winters show, where I’ve agreed to an interview. Plucking a mint from a bowl on the table, I make a mental note that the walls are actually green. Would have thought it was just a metaphor, though I wouldn’t know what for.
The show’s first guest is the governor of California, and his segment with Chantal plays on four TV screens that cover the wall to my right. For a moment, I lose myself in watching the talking heads on the screens and tell myself that it will be easier to do an interview with a reporter than it is to address a room full of investors.
But I’m not so sure about that. Investors are all on my side. We all want AstroTech to succeed, and for years, it has. I worry that a reporter will try to punch holes in whatever I say and make me look bad.
Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. There’s a reason I’ve been “media shy” all these years. It’s not just about hiding my personal life and the mistakes I made there—it was just good business sense.
I check my phone for the twentieth time since the Town Car dropped me here. I need to make sure no one needs me for anything at work, and the fact that there are no texts or messagesproves what I should have realized years ago—the company I built can function without me being involved in every decision every damn minute.
Overhead speakers play music, which I’ve been ignoring until now, when a Taylor Swift song comes on and gets my attention.
The song rockets me back to the concert, when I knew I was happy, but I didn’t know why. The guy who sat there with PJ that night couldn’t have possibly known what he needed to be happy like that all the time. Not until he pushed her away.
My eyes dart around the room, suddenly feeling like what I’m about to do is a ridiculous stunt that shouldn’t be necessary to prove what I already know—that I love Penelope June Corbett, and I want her more than I want anything else.
It’s enough just to tell her that.
In a momentary fit of panic, I take a tissue from a holder on the table and scrub the makeup off my cheeks. This is all wrong. It feels like an ambush when what I need to do is drive to Napa and talk to the woman I?—
“Colin.”
Tissue suspended in my hand, I stop moving.
I’m losing it. I’m hearing PJ’s voice in my head because I’m so damn desperate for the real thing. I’m actually hallucinating because now I feel like I can smell the lemony shampoo she uses, and it knocks the air from my lungs.
I need to get a grip.
Just like that, I feel the grip of a hand on my shoulder. I’ve always turned to science over anything mystical or spiritual because I prefer to believe in things I can quantify, but right now, I believe in this life force telling me to stop spiraling and get a grip.
“Hey. Are you okay?”
The voice is closer to my ear, and now I feel the hand run from my shoulder down my arm. A moment later, PJ sits on the couch next to me and my lungs have a hard time drawing breath.
Turning to look at her, I feel the need to place a hand on her cheek so I know I haven’t fully gone mad. But it’s the sweet curve of her face and the warmth of her skin that I feel, and for the first time in weeks, I feel like I could be whole again.
“You’re here.” Stating the obvious is all I seem capable of, and she smiles.
“Yeah. What the hell were you thinking?”
The wheels in my brain grind slowly through all the possible mistakes I’ve made and all the reasons a person could ask me that question. There are too many for me to choose only one. “I’ll need you to be more specific.”
“Archer told me you invested in Buttercup Hill to keep us from defaulting on our debts. You’re a part owner.”
Oh, that.
It seemed like the least I could do since I could afford to help my oldest friend and his family stave off bankruptcy by signing on as a silent partner and shoring up the winery’s finances. When Archer told me about his new half brother, it sealed the deal. He’ll have enough to deal with there without worrying about money. No one has to know I’m involved.
