Page 20 of Sinful Abandon

“You’re only twenty-one, Ryan. Your twenties are for screwing anything that moves. Not shacking up with someone who’s a decade older than you. You’re supposed to date around and find out who you really like. Find out who you are. You’re so young. You don’t know what’s out there.”

I think my soft speech has kicked some sense into him.

For a hot second.

Ryan bites his lip and curses into the darkened room. “You think I’m too young to know what I want? I got news for you, Heather. I know more about life and love at twenty-one than you’ll know at forty. Because I let myself feel things, and I don’t put a label on people.”

He points a finger at me, and suddenly, I feel like the child in this situation.

“I know who I am, and I know what I want. I can’t believe I started my day off finally thinking I found the woman of my dreams. More like a fucking nightmare.” He hisses as he opens the door. Just as he’s about to leave, he turns and adds, “Nice dress.”

With the slam of the door, my heart jolts.

Clenching my eyes tight, I try to quell the tears threatening to burn down my cheeks. I refuse to cry over a man, especially one I’ve only known for a few hours.

Turning the pain into something more useful, I straighten my dress, wipe the undersides of my eyes, and storm out of the copy room and down to Jarrod’s office, passing the secretary while she’s motioning to me that he’s on a call.

Opening the door, I stop for a second, allowing him to adjust to the fact that I just barged into his office.

Jarrod holds the phone to his mouth. “Hold on one second,” he says to the caller. He puts the phone to his chest.

“Five carats,” I say. “As your wife, I refuse to wear anything less than that.”

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

I just sold my soul to the devil.

I’m being very New York today. Black dress, black heels, black sunglasses, and my hair is pinned high in a bun fit for a ballerina. I look like Audrey Hepburn going to Tiffany’s, but I feel like I’m going to a funeral.

After drinking my weight in Tito’s—on an empty stomach, mind you—I found myself dancing in my living room to late nineties pop, and I might have started crying when an NSync ballad started playing.

“Morning, Heather.” Meg’s voice trails off as I saunter past her, not even taking off my sunglasses. She’s up from her desk in record speed, adjusting those red-rimmed glasses as she follows me. “I have your notes for the pitch meeting, your noon lunch was canceled, and Jarrod was here this morning.”

I open the door and see a small black bag with gold writing on my desk. I reach back and take the folder from Meg’s hands without looking in her direction. I’m staring at the bag when I hear the door close behind me.

I take off my sunglasses and continue to stare.

Walking over to the desk, I peer inside. A black box is in there. Dipping my hand inside, I pull out the box, open it, and procure another box. This time, it’s velvet.

“Holy shit,” are the words that pour out of my mouth when I open the box and see the massive rock sitting on the velvet cushion. I hold the box up to the light and tilt it in the air, letting the light reflect off the five-carat brilliant cut round diamond engagement ring sitting on a band of pave diamonds.

It’s not exactly the proposal all girls dream of, but it’s certainly the one I asked for.

I slide the ring onto my finger and am instantly weighed down by the size of it. My hand and heart have never felt heavier.

Why did I tell Jarrod I wanted a ring? Why did I say anything?

Putting this ring on proves that I am everything Ryan accused me of being.

I bang my fist on the wall. Why do I, all of sudden, have to have a conscience about the matter?

Ryan acts like he knows the ways of the world. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be dirt poor. To have to steal groceries at ten years old, so you have something to eat. And then come home to have your dad and his woman of the night take them from you.

I give Ryan ten more years, and he’ll be a womanizer like the rest of them. He’ll be cheating on his girlfriend or wife. Maybe he’ll be an elusive cad, a lothario who strings women along, only to ditch them for another. Men only care about two things—their dicks and their wallets. The smaller one is, the bigger the other one seems to get.

And Ryan has a small wallet.

I bang my fist on the wall again.