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After my humiliating call to Michael Astor, everything rolls down hill and straight into a pile of shit.
The rest of my Monday is a scramble to do damage control around Reservoir’s office, but I’m too late. Sloan has already found her army and circled the wagons. I can’t find a single person in that company who isn’t one-hundred-percent committed to following their rebellion’s new leader.
On the one hand, it’s frustrating as hell. Whatever she’s said and done to rally her troops, it worked. On the other hand, her ability to turn a situation around, inspire others’ confidence about her leadership, and get shit done is epic. Yes, she has the advantage because this is her home turf, but she outmaneuvered me. I admit it.
I just can’t let that stand.
That evening, I drive to Sloan’s place, Fleetwood Mac’s haunting relationship Hail Mary song, “The Chain,” surging over the radio. Lindsey Buckingham wails that if his woman doesn’t love him now, she’ll never love him again…
Those words hit me square in the chest.
I saw the way Sloan looked at me on our wedding day. I felt the way she responded to my lovemaking on our wedding night. Somewhere in that stubborn, bruised heart of hers, I think Sloan cares about me, maybe even a lot. I just need her to admit it.
Trying to shake off my nerves, I reach her townhouse well after dark, park, and knock on her door.
No answer.
I know she’s in there. Before I left my car, I watched until I saw lights flip on and off inside her unit.
Sighing, I knock again. “Baby, we need to talk. Silence isn’t solving anything. I know you’re angry and upset. Probably confused, too. If you’ll open up and talk to me, I can explain Becca.”
Still nothing, not even an acknowledgment that I’m outside her door.
Dread twists me up. I need to salvage the Wynam situation for Evan…but I need my wife back for me. “Baby, don’t do this.”
Still no response. I sigh. Pleading is generally useless and puts me in a position of weakness. Sloan isn’t a woman who respects sniveling. Oh, she’d have all appropriate empathy for someone truly in need, but she doesn’t see me that way. She expects me to have more game.
If I’m going to make any headway, I have to get crafty.
With a quick phone call, I order her favorite pizza. My guess? She’ll answer the door for the delivery guy bringing her a free dinner. Or she’ll at least be curious enough to find out what’s going on.
Forty long minutes later, a teenager in a collared shirt screeches up to her curb, whistling as he balances a squatty oblong box in his palm and rings the bell. I trail him silently, tucking myself behind a tall juniper bush planted on one side of her door.
It’s not long before Sloan answers. “I didn’t order a pizza.”
“Are you Sloan Shaw?”
“Yes, but—”
“This is your favorite pie. It’s from your husband—all paid for.” The kid thrusts the box into her hands. “Have a good night.”
Sighing, Sloan shakes her head and moves to close the door. I seize the moment and lunge forward, squeezing my way inside and shutting the door behind me. Despite the fact she’s changed into a pink sweater that hangs over one bare shoulder and faded gray yoga pants, she looks fucking gorgeous.
Glowering, she tosses the pizza on the nearby table. “What are you doing? I didn’t invite you in. Get out.”
“We need to talk. I—”
“So you can lie to me some more? No thanks.” She yanks the door open and raises an expectant brow.
I kick the door shut, refusing to budge. “I didn’t lie.”
“Well, you sure as hell didn’t tell me the whole truth. But I don’t care anymore. I don’t want to hear whatever explanation you’ve concocted. I just want you gone.”
“This is too important for you to stubbornly refuse to listen—”
“Important to you and your scheme to take over Reservoir, not to me.”
“You are the most stubborn woman!”
