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I’d sent my ideas to Rami, making her promise me that she’d pretend it was their ideas. Gillian would rather go makeup free with a hair mask on during a busy Friday night than take my advice.
Evidently, it didn’t matter—Gillian knew best.
And for the subsequent five parties through the season, she’d gotten progressively more rigid. Blowing the budget on stupid things that were more for image than to make the event a success.
Like for the Book Club Summer Fling, she’d spent hundreds of dollars on keychains, bookmarks, and massive signs instead of doing fun games and using some of the money to give away a new waterproof E-reader. And it hadn’t occurred to her to make zones for different genres and to get books from the library.
I’d had a million ideas for the book club, but Gillian’s version had ended up falling flat. And then to make it worse, Gillian had insulted the client, telling her she expected too much.
The client always expected too much, it was our—their—job to show them options and get them excited about it.
I flopped onto my back and opened my photo gallery. Rami had sent me a photo from the party with Mason and I during the sparklers part of the evening. I hadn’t even known the photographer had taken it.
A totally candid shot that made my heart ache.
I was smiling so widely, and he was so close.
Ugh.I clicked my phone off and laid it on my chest. I missed him. He’d never replied to my email.
The girls didn’t give me details on Mason, just begged for ways to circumvent Gillian’s less than stellar ideas.
Did he miss me too?
Did he even think about us? It had only been a few stolen kisses. And of course, the whole baby birth thing. He was probably glad I’d left. He wouldn’t have to make excuses about why we wouldn’t work out when the lust faded.
I rolled onto my side to look at bean. It was better this way.
I opened my phone.
No prison orange for you, R. Go convince Jackie and Henry to talk to Penn about the menu before Gillian and M’s meeting. Zoom is your friend. Pump up Henry’s ego. He’s a Michelin Star chef FFS. Get him revved up and he’ll put Gillian in her place, I promise.
I miss you guys.
Resolutely, I sat up and looked for a contact for the renovations girl. If I was going to be staying in Clintondale, I needed to figure out ways to become part of the community.
It wasn’t Crescent Cove, but it was my hometown.
I could make it work.
I hoped.
TWENTY-FOUR
I movedanother pile of invoices and knocked over a Diet Coke bottle that was on another.
“Fuck.” I kicked back my chair as I tried to grab it and splashed it across my front of my jeans. “Motherfucker.”
I reached for the roll of paper towels I kept on my filing cabinet, but I’d used it up and not replaced it.
The mountain of paperwork I’d gotten behind on slid forward and into the puddle under my desk.
Pissed and frustrated, I kicked my desk, then I tore out of my office and down the hall to the employee bathrooms. I shoved the door open and nearly banged it into Henry’s nose.
“Jesus, man. Where’s the fire?”
“Sorry.” I raked my fingers through my hair. I’d forgotten to get it cut—again. “I just dumped a soda on me.”
“I was hoping you hadn’t pissed yourself.” Henry grabbed a wad of paper towels from the dispenser. “Even if you look like you spent the night with a bit more than a Diet Coke.”
