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“No, it’s fine.” Dash leans in and kisses me lightly. “I hope your head feels better.”
“Talk to you tomorrow.”
I get in the cab, and we pull away, leaving Dash on the sidewalk behind us. I pull the check from my purse, and just hold it for a moment, looking at those zeroes that—up until a week ago—were more than my wildest dreams.
My future. A chance to build my makeup empire.
This is what’s important, right?
I’ve always picked my career over guys, without even thinking twice. That’s what’s mattered most to me, that’s the thing I’ve always put first. My last relationship crumbled when he started resenting my ambition, and all the hours I was putting in to make it work. So whatever’s happening with Dash should be way down my list of priorities right now, with everything else I have going on.
But still, I can’t help feeling an ache, as the cab drives further away from him. Because if I’ve gotten everything that I wanted to make my dreams finally come true…
Why does it feel like this is a consolation prize?
18
Dash
A headache.
It shouldn’t be a big deal. I text her the next morning, and Callie replies that she’s feeling much better. But still, when I suggest she comes over for dinner, she says she has plans with her friends. Another time.
Except, that other time doesn’t roll around. All week, she’s been busy with appointments for her business, run off her feet. I dropped by her new workshop space with a bottle of champagne, to celebrate her moving in, but found her so buried under boxes and deliverymen, we barely exchanged a brief kiss and a couple of words before I left her to it.
I get it, this is a crazy time. I’ve seen it up close in a bunch of my companies: They go from zero to one hundred overnight, and the founders are left scrambling to get things up and running. Of course she’s busy. Of course she’s distracted.
Of course I’m sitting alone at the bar on a Friday lunchtime, trying to get some emails sent, but really wondering if I should text her. Again.
I sigh, glancing at my phone for about the billionth time in half an hour. Yup, still no reply. That probably wouldn’t bother me as much if my original text wasn’t flirty to the point of cringe.
Want to meet for that dinner later? I’ll cook. And clean you up after, if you’re lucky ;)
The worst though is the winky emoji at the end. Nothing screams “rejected” like a girl leaving you hanging on a winky face.
My phone pings, and I grab it fast.
Sorry! Busy day.
The way I deflate tells me what I’ve been trying to ignore all week:
I miss her.
Charlie joins me, raising an eyebrow at my sour mug. “Don’t tell me you tried Seb’s new bitters concoction. He calls it bracing, but we know he really means ‘god-awful.’”
“Huh?” I turn, still distracted.
“As I suspected,” Charlie grins. “Your face is just like that because you’re in a bad mood.”
“Am not,” I grumble, but that just makes him laugh.
“What happened, trouble in paradise with your fake bride-to-be?”
“No,” I snap. Then pause. “Well… I don’t know. She’s been so busy, I’ve hardly seen her all week, and she just blew off my dinner invite. Again.”
Grace joins us, wrapping her arms around Charlie in time to hear my last words. “She must be full steam ahead on her business though, right? I remember, when I was setting up my concierge service, I barely had a moment to think.”
“Which is why I showed up with takeout every night, to ease the load,” Charlie grins, turning to kiss her.
