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Eight
Devon
“Devon…”
I groan inwardly at the sound of my name being called down the corridor in Daniel’s faux-friendly voice.
Pausing my conversation with Rosh, I glance up as he approaches and offer a curt nod.
“Stag do on Friday?” he asks, flashing a teasing smirk. “Going to get messy, I presume?”
“Daniel, you twat,” Rosh snaps at him. “The wedding’s off. Emma’s moving to Paris.”
Daniel’s eyes widen in the kind of dramatic way that tells me there’s no chance he wasn’t already in possession of this information. “Jesus, Dev. You ran her out of the country?”
My jaw tenses in agitation. In the week and a half since the wedding was called off, I’ve gotten much better at brushing all the comments aside, whether they be insensitive jokes or condescending platitudes about ‘hanging in there.’ But it’s hard not to let people like Daniel get to me at the best of times, and right now isn’t exactly the best of times.
“Okay, thank you, Daniel. Pleasure as always,” Rosh says with an eye roll as she grasps my bicep and manoeuvres me into my office.
“Why couldn’t he have been the one who leaked that report?” I ask bitterly as I close the door behind us.
She sighs, flicking her sleek dark hair over one shoulder. “Well, he’s a twat. But at least he’s a loyal one.”
I grimace at the implication behind her words. It was gut-wrenching, to say the least, when I learned that the person behind the leak was a young woman named Shelley, who I personally recruited. I know there’s an argument to be made that we shouldn’t be working with companies who are prepared to cover up environmental catastrophes just to save their bottom line but trampling all over our own company’s good name is definitely not the way to make it. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve wished Shelley had brought the information to me, or any of the other senior managers in our firm, before going to the press. This is hardly the first time a sensitive issue like this has come up with one of our clients; we would have found a way to handle it discretely and professionally.
But it’s too late now…
“Who am I kidding?” I mutter. “If Daniel had discovered that information, he’d have taken it to his grave. The man has the moral compass of a toad.”
“That’s not fair,” Rosh says, sounding a little disappointed. “I’m sure the noble toad has an excellent moral compass.”
I let out a soft chuckle. “Wearetalking about creatures who copulate by jumping on top of any female that happens to be hopping by.”
She considers this for a moment. “Thatdoessound like Daniel.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out, the corner of my mouth tilting up when I see it’s another email from Waho. I have no idea why I’m still emailing this guy, but I’m starting to feel like I’m a little bit hooked. Maybe it’s because he’s already seen me on my worst behaviour, or because I really don’t care what he thinks of me, but I find it kind of fun to vent to him, and maybe even a little cathartic…even if he does have the sympathetic ear of a garden slug.
“Have you made plans for this weekend?” Rosh asks. “It might help for you to take your mind off things.”
“Actually, the reception’s going ahead.”
Rosh’s brows shoot into her hairline. “It is?”
I nod. “Emma’s folks decided to salvage what they could and turn it into a going away party for her.”
“And you’re…going?” Her tone seems almost bewildered, as though she can’t possibly fathom such a notion.
I shrug. “Of course. We’re still friends.”
“You actually seem remarkably fine for a guy who was jilted less than two weeks ago,” she observes.
“I’m perfectly fine until someone pesters me about how I’m doing,” I say with a pointed look. “And do you really have to use the word ‘jilted’?”
Wes
My parents have never been the type to pass up a good excuse for a party, and to be honest, I’m pretty sure half the reason Mum was so disappointed when Emma and Devon called off their wedding was because of the prospect of cancelling what was sure to be a reception for the ages. But if Jaclyn Holt is one thing, it’s resourceful, so when Emma told us she’d be leaving for a Paris only a week after the wedding had been scheduled to take place, Mum made the decision to simply transform the reception into the world’s fanciest, most over-the-top going away party.
Fortunately, despite Mum’s initial insistence, I’ve been let off the hook regarding the formal dress code, so I’m actually able to breathe properly and enjoy myself. Well, that is until I’m interrupted at the bar by a very unwelcome presence.
