The stress and decision fatigue of the morning had gotten to me by then, and against my better judgment, I blurted out “add fifty dollars for each of you.”
They ran my card three times, and every time it was declined. Eventually, I had them split the payment between two cards.
At first, I was annoyed. My card should have been accepted with no issue. That emotion, though, gave way to mortification as I recalled all the expenses I paid for in Bahrain a few weeks ago.
So I split six hundred and sixty dollars between two credit cards, already knowing it will take months to pay them off. Maybe I could run a special on my membership site to help move the process along. Or I could get a few friends to come over and help me crank out a big batch of products for a flash sale.
But my best friend Mia and her older sister Shelby are both Formula 1 drivers. They’re leaving soon, and though I’ve spent the last several months planning to travel the world along with them and Luca, I’m being left behind.
Eyes closed, I search for another solution.
But my brain is mushy and the Texas sun is too bright.
I can’t do this. I’m not cut out to be an independent human. Anegotiator. An entrepreneur. I’m not cut out to be a strong, powerful anything. All I want to do right now is curl up on this warm concrete like a cat and drift off to sleep.
Maybe I’ll stay here in this driveway forever. It’s notthatuncomfortable. If I don’t file a change of address, the creditors can’t find me here.
“Are you all right?”
The deep, concerned voice startles me, and my body jolts.
My cheeks warm with embarrassment. Covering my eyes with one hand, I tilt my head back and regard Alaric Steele.
As expected, his expression is screwed up in concern.
Rightfully so.
There’s a woman having a horizontal meltdown smack in the middle of his driveway.
His hair is less tidy than it was earlier—like maybe he’s been running his hands through it. Those deep, soulful eyes are riddled with trepidation, which I assume is inspired by me, and that only makes my shame spiral wind tighter.
I don’t want him to worry about me. I never want anyone to have to be concerned with me in any way. I’m a lot—that’s a well-established fact. I’ve got twenty-six years of lived experience, a cordial but superficial relationship with my parents, and several short-lived jobs on my resume to prove it.
The truth of my idiosyncrasies reflects back at me in the concerned scowl of this handsome, reasonable man, and damn if that doesn’t push my self-consciousness to the limits.
Sighing, I slip my mask back into place, prepared to tell him what he wants to hear.
That I’m fine.
I’m not.
That I’ll be going now.
To where, I have no idea.
He should forget I was ever here.
I’m not his problem, thankfully, and given the circumstances, he’ll never have to be concerned with me again.
Pressing my lips together, I allow myself to drink him in for a few more seconds.
He’s inaccessibly beautiful, if that’s a thing. This man belongs in a high-end fashion ad or on a runway in Paris. If I typed “ideal male” into my web browser and disregarded all the AI slop, I’m certain I’d find pages upon pages of search results for Alaric Steele.
Between the definition in his forearms and the way his fitted polo istucked into his tight slacks, he’s a visual feast for my squinty, watering eyes. He still looks concerned, but that doesn’t make him any less attractive. I work my way from his feet to his face, appreciating every inch. He really does have exceptional hair.
“Do you use a deep conditioner?” The words are out before my hand makes it to my mouth to stop them.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
