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Her gaze tracks my movements, but she doesn't say anything. Just another reason I love that woman.
"I'll be back in a little bit. Or actually, I might work from home for the rest of the day," I tell her, throwing my laptop into my briefcase along with the letter.
Why would she be writing to me?
The words tangle through my mind over and over again. My heart continues to beat out of control, and my vision seems a bit hazy.
Maybe I am having a heart attack.
But maybe that's just what happens when the former love of your life writes you a fucking letter after ten years.
"I'll cancel your meeting with Mr. James," she comments as I pass her hurriedly. I come to a screeching halt, a frustrated groan bursting from my mouth. I hesitate for a moment. Carlyle James is one of the firm's biggest clients. I managed to land him a year ago after three years of effort. One of the reasons that he likes me so much is that I'm always available, unlike some of the other partners in the firm who actually have a life outside of work and fucking random women.
Fuck it. "Tell him I'm sick," I throw over my shoulder before I hurry out of the room.
I'm barely aware of my steps as I walk through the office, enter the elevators, and then descend the fifty floors to the building lobby.
All I can think about is that letter.
I'm tempted to pull it out and rip it open right now, but if I'm having this crazy of a reaction just from seeing her writing my name and office address, what is my reaction going to be when I read the contents?
Her face floats through my mind. She was eighteen the last time I saw her. Still a young girl in every way. What does she look like right now? Is she married? Does she have kids?
Just the thought of those two things makes me want to throw up, punch a hole in the wall...scream.
"Logan," a voice calls out, and I cringe. It's Marissa.
I turn and look at the pert little blonde hustling toward me. I'd been all about fucking her that night...multiple times, in fact. But now, looking at her, I'm not sure what I'd been thinking.
How had I ever wanted a blonde when hair so dark it's almost black is what I like? How had I ever kissed her thin lips when I craved pouty, full ones?
Staring down at her, I was reminded for the first time in many years how every woman I'd slept with over the last ten years had been a hollow fill-in for a girl that couldn't be replaced.
Fuck.
"Not now," I tell her sharply as I walk away quickly. Her quick exhale behind me is all I need to hear to imagine the destroyed look on her face provoked by my continued rebuffs of her advances. But just like with all the others, I couldn’t care less.
And they could all blame it on her, Valentina Rossi. The girl who'd destroyed my soul.
The walkto my high-rise apartment drenches me. Inside, I throw off my shoes and rip the letter out of my soaked briefcase, not even caring about the water that's dripping off me onto the spotless tile floor.
I walk to my black leather couch and sink down into it, my hands trembling as they tear open the letter.
Dear Logan…
I scan the letter, not really believing what I'm reading.
How dare she?
How dare she think that after all these years, after she left so suddenly, that I would just be willing to drop everything and rush to her side?
I read the letter over and over again. Her explanation that she wants to spend time with the people who matter most to her makes me burn. Was I important when she disappeared without a trace?
To put it bluntly, Valentina ruined me. She took my heart and my soul, shaped them into things that lived and breathed only for her. And then she stomped both to pieces.
I haven't been the same since.
I finally throw the letter on the coffee table and storm over to my floor to ceiling windows that look out on the still storming New York skyline. This penthouse was expensive. It was the first thing I bought when I started to make real money, and I wonder if I did it to prove something to myself. Like maybe if I made something of myself, it would make up for whatever I was missing that had led to her leaving me.
