AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Have you told her you’re even going?”
“I mentioned it.”
True.
Jake—ever the philanthropist—plans to take his fancy sprinkler system to Africa. Not to sell, but to give so that villages there can more effectively grow crops. He told me this while lying in bed last night. He also said it was something he planned for the future. I assumed months from now—maybe even years. But Cam speaks as if Jake’s leaving a lot sooner than that.
“So when you mentioned it, did the two of you talk about what would happen when you’re away? Or what will happen when you get back? Are you going to stay in touch?”
Jake lets out a laugh as he closes the file in his hand and tosses it on the bed next to Cam. “Who are you? My therapist?”
“I’m your best friend. And I won’t sit back and watch you throw something good away because you’re too fucking stubborn to acknowledge it’s worth.”
Fucking Cam. I love him.
“Look, I like Penelope. Hell, I may even care about her. But…”
There’s this sinking feeling in my gut. This tightening in my chest. My knees are wobbly and my hands sweaty. I swallow the lump in my throat and wait for the rest of what Jake has to say—something that, whatever it is, gives him pause.
Jake’s phone chimes with an email notification. Cam snatches it from him and holds it out of reach. “But…” he urges, demanding Jake give him an answer.
“For fuck’s sake, Cam. I live in Chicago. She lives in Nowhere, Mississippi. It is what it is. I mean, we can stay in touch. She can visit whenever she wants. We can have a good time, then go back to our lives. No strings attached.”
Cam scoffs. “Do you fucking hear yourself? No strings attached? Come the fuck on…”
“What? I’m not looking for a fairytale, Cam. And to be honest, I’m not so sure Penelope is either. Casual is good for us. Fucking perfect. Think about it. Who wouldn’t want a relationship like that?”
Um.
Me.Chapter Twenty-EightRemember those five stages of grief my mother goes through when she calls me? Well, I think that shit is hereditary.
Step 1: Denial.
Jake never used the word casual. I, obviously, heard him wrong. Because if he thought of us as casual, he wouldn’t have walked downstairs—where I’d escaped to after I heard what I clearly never heard—pinched my chin with his fingers. Lifted my head. Kissed my lips. Then mouthed, beautiful.
Other than the designer labels, there was nothing beautiful about my outfit—boots, jeans, scarf, awesome-ass long sleeved shirt with thumbholes. Or my messy-bun hair. And while my makeup was on point, I wouldn’t call it beautiful.
But God I felt beautiful when he grabbed my hand. When he rubbed his thumb over my knuckles as we walked down eighteen flights of stairs. When he kept his hand on my thigh the entire ride to the airport. When he moved it only to hold my hand again as he pulled me from the car.
Led me to the plane.
Tucked his phone between his shoulder and cheek.
Strapped me in.
Grazed my temple with his finger.
Casual my ass….
Step 2: Anger.
Fuck Jake Swagger. Fuck him for thinking I can’t handle Africa. Fuck him for referring to my hometown as Nowhere, Mississippi. Fuck him and his “no strings attached” comment. Fuck him for assuming I don’t want a fairytale. And fuck him for ever mentioning the word casual.
Step 3: Bargaining.
God, please let this man love me. Take me. Marry me. And put his baby in me. Do that, and I promise I’ll donate a bunch of his money to a charity once I gain access to his accounts. That’s if he doesn’t make me sign a prenup. So God, don’t let him make me sign a prenup.
Step 4: Depression.
That’s the stage I’m experiencing right now.
I glance up at Jake who sits like a king in the captain’s chair of his sixty-million-dollar plane. He’s dressed for business in his perfectly tailored dark gray suit. The only wrinkle on his body is the tiny one between his eyes—ever the CEO as he pounds furiously on the keys of his laptop.
The sight of him does crazy things to me. I feel like animals are doing shit in my belly. Butterflies flutter. Birds flap their wings. Fish swim. It’s bottom lip-biting, grin-hiding good. Until, I remember what he said. Then it feels as if I’ve been stabbed in the heart by one of those big Texas Longhorns.
I can’t be his Miss Sims. I can’t be his Pretty Woman. I can’t come to Chicago when it’s convenient for him, let him make love to me, fall deeper in love with him, then wake up alone in his big bed with a stack of cash and a note next to me telling me he’ll be in touch.
I move my eyes away from him and have to blink back tears. I take a couple deep breaths. Nothing helps. This emptiness…
