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I do not find this remotely funny.
The apartment is decorated in soothing shades of gray and ivory. Color feels like a big commitment. So I like neutrals. So what? That makes me a killjoy? And the couch is Italian, damn it. It took me months to pull the trigger on spending that kind of money.
“You have thirteen minutes.”
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
My stomach begins to rumble. While the traitor also known as my stomach yawns and gurgles and howls and makes a liar out of me, Dane’s winged brows nearly reach his hairline. My hand presses against it in fear the noise may never stop.
“Let me take you to dinner.”
“I’m not in the mood, Dane,” I quietly admit, throwing myself down on the couch next to him. “I’ve had a shitty day at work and all I want to do is sit here and stare blankly at the wall and contemplate what a shitty day I’ve had.”
“What happened?” Attention suddenly rapt, when I don’t grant him an answer, he prods, “Maybe I can help.”
I’ve never been one to talk about my problems. I like to mull them over in private, beat myself senseless with them, make myself stare at them until I want to vomit. Then I move on. That’s my routine. That’s always been my routine. Why mess with perfection?
Which is why I find it odd that as I study the man draped all over my way-too-expensive Italian handmade couch wearing an expression of genuine interest, I feel like talking. Dane has a way of pushing that doesn’t make me want to push back. I don’t feel forced but rather cajoled senseless, rendered too stupid to resist.
“I screwed up. The analysts said the company was well managed and had enormous growth potential but insurance is not a sector I’m very familiar with so I balked. News broke that the company was being bought out and the stock went through the roof…I cost us millions,” I explain in one breath.
“You released the ball late and got intercepted,” he offers, nodding.
“What?”
“You doubted your gut instinct.”
“Yes.”
“Happens to the best of us. You’ve gotta let it go and get ready for the next snap.”
“Huh?”
“Your work requires quick thinking and decision-making. You don’t have time to feel sorry for yourself. There’ll be another trade tomorrow and you’ll make up the potential loss in revenue. Don’t stop trustin’ yourself.”
We stare at each other.
His words continue to tumble around my head. Simple and perceptive. They soothe that raw place inside of me that says I need to work harder than anyone else, that feels the need to prove myself every single day…they smother the voice that says I need to be perfect. With a few thoughtful words Dane Wylder has accomplished the impossible––he made me feel better.
He smiles. And it’s not one of his wicked grins, or his cocky one, or the smug one. It’s soft and sweet and I find myself smiling back.
My landline rings, cutting short the easy vibe traveling between us. Blinking out of it, I reluctantly get up and answer.
“Hi, Miz Donovan. A Mr. Garner is here to see you.”
Holy crap, Jeff is here. My stomach drops, and not in a good way. I need to get Dane out of here before Jeff reaches my floor. I don’t even know how to explain Dane to Jeff. Not that he deserves an explanation but I know he’ll press for one. Lawyers.
“Eddie, give me five minutes and then you can send him up.”
“You got it, Miz Donovan.”
Back in the living room, I find Dane sipping his wine and staring dreamily at the panorama with no knowledge of the shit storm that’s coming. He turns to face me. For a fleeting moment I see some type of appreciation cross his face. Of what specifically, I’m not sure.
The handwringing starts. I hate being rude. And I hate when others are rude. Treating people with respect takes little to no effort. There’s never a good excuse. Except for this very moment.
“I hate to be rude but…uh…I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
He stares. He stares some more. His brow bunches up. “Why?”
More handwringing on my part. His eyes narrow, scanning my face and finding all the telltale signs of rising anxiety. He places the unfinished wine on the coffee table and stands.
“Is someone here? Downstairs?” His tone says he’s not going to go away quietly. “Someone you’re dating?” he adds sharply, his eyebrows halfway up his forehead.
“No!” I practically shout. “I mean––not anymore. Someone I used to date. Can you leave, please? I don’t have time to argue with you!”
“Why?” His jaw pulses with pent-up anger. Anger? Why would he be angry? “Did you invite him over?”
Didn’t he show up uninvited as well? “That is none of your business and you’re being really pushy about this. I don’t want him to see what’s going on here.” I’m talking quickly now, getting antsy as time slips away.
“What do ya mean you don’t want him to see what’s goin’ on here?” he snaps, throwing my words back at me, his index finger drawing the same invisible circle between us I just drew with mine.
The doorbell rings. Oh balls.
“All I wanted to do was drink my sorrows away! Don’t leave this room,” I order, pointing at the mulish giant before I stalk away to answer the door.
I open the front door to a tired-looking Jeff. He greets me with a wane smile. His suit rumpled like it never is. Two days’ worth of dark-brown stubble on his face and circles under his eyes.
“Are you okay?” is the first thing that comes out of my mouth.
“No.” His familiar brown eyes slide up and down my body, nothing other than mild interest in them.
“You didn’t return any of my calls.”
“I’ve been busy. Work. You know how it is.” Bald-faced lie but I’ve got nothing else.
I’ll always remember my time with Jeff fondly. Part of me still misses the early days. When I was still wowed by his J. Crew good looks and his rower’s body, that laid-back sexy way he has of drawing a person in, making them think that every word that comes out of their mouth is a diamond to be treasured.
“Can I come in?” he asks with a playful smirk. It’s then I realize I haven’t moved out of the doorway to let him enter.
“Sorry.”
Hands stuffed in his suit pants, he steps inside and halts, looking somewhat lost as he glances around.
“Nice place.”
“Thanks––is this a bad time to ask what you’re doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
Sounds ominous. For a moment, I’m worried.
“Jeff—”
“Why didn’t you want to marry me?”
Last time I saw Jeff was at a Super Bowl party Ethan threw for Calvin. This is what he asks after seeing me for the first time in five years? Standing awkwardly in the entrance of my new apartment he asks why I didn’t want to marry him nine years ago?
My instinct is to be completely honest.
Straight forward is my generally preferred style. Something in his eyes has me pulling my punches though.
“Let’s have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? I have no food in the house so if you’re hungry you’re out of luck.”
As I lead Jeff into the kitchen, my mind is still in the living room, wondering what the heck I’m going to do about Dane. Jeff finds the open bottle of red on the counter and inspects the label. I grab a glass out of a cabinet and hand it to him.
Leaning against the counter, I give him time to pour himself a glass. “Why are you here, Jeff? It can’t be about a marriage proposal that happened nine years ago.”
He takes a sip of the wine, his gaze purposely aimed at the bottle. I’ve never seen Jeff look so serious. This can’t be good.
“I’ve decided to have this kid with you. I’d prefer to get married but I’ll take the kid for now and we can discuss the rest later. I’ve already started shopping for firms in New York.”
Calling me surprised is putting it lightly. I grip the counter for purchase, the only thing I can manage at the moment.
“What…ah…I…you can’t be here, Jeff,” is all I can think to say. I’m panicking. This is too much drama for me. Any drama is too much drama for me.
“Yeah, you can’t be here, Jeff,” a voice booms from the next room.
Oh balls.
My shoulders curve in as I brace for what’s about to happen next. Jeff looks shocked, rightfully so.
“Who the fuck is that?” Jeff says.
Dane steps into the kitchen looking like the wrath of God personified. Jeff blinks, taking in the man standing in the doorway. All puffed up, the wrath of God looks even bigger.
“Dane Wylder is in your apartment,” Jeff absently tells me.
“That’s correct, Jeffrey,” says the man he speaks of.
I rub my temples. Where there was only a mild ache not too long ago, there is now a steady pounding. “Dane, can you give us a minute?”
“What’s Dane Wylder doing in your apartment?”
