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I mechanically respond to emails, swallowing roughly when I click on the email from Helen that’s popped up with the tagline “itinerary”.
My pulse is thrumming in my ears, and I feel clammy and faint, like all the blood has rushed out of my head as I read through it. It’s Friday. We leave on Monday. In three days. The trip comprises four days in Seattle, four in LA, six in San Diego, and eight in New York. Six in San Diego. I’m going to come face to face with Tim. And it’s going to destroy me.
The rest of the day passes in a blur, and I can’t wait to get home. Knocking the door shut with my elbow, I dump my purse on the sideboard and bypass the narrow galley kitchen. Any other Friday would call for wine. Not this one.
I strip off my clothes, throwing them into the hamper in my bedroom – the only one in this small apartment – and step into the single bathroom. I’ve always wanted a bath, but when it came to looking for affordable places to live alone, I got to choose between a bathtub and a bedroom separate from the living area. I opted for privacy where I sleep and dress.
Instead of soaking in a bath, I spend an hour sitting on the floor of my shower, letting the water run over me while I try not to have a panic attack.
I run out of hot water before I’m ready to leave, eventually forced out by the shudders racking my body. Yeah. Okay. Shutting off the frigid water, I stiffly climb out, toweling myself down and donning sweatpants and an NYU sweatshirt, shoving my feet into slippers as I cross through to my bedroom.
The lack of a bath is made up for in the small walk-in closet. I throw the doors open, attacking the hanging clothes, throwing anything that is remotely okay to see Tim in onto my full-size bed, the rest landing on the plush green reading armchair in the corner of the closet.
I need to look good when I come face to face with Tim again. He’s had almost five weeks to get over me. To move on. Including New Year’s Eve. No doubt he barely remembers our time together. He’s probably already got a new squeeze. The thought has me sucking in deep breaths and fighting the urge to hurl.
The rest of the weekend passes in a blur, while I traipse around Chicago, racking up an eye-watering amount of credit card debt that’s going to take me the rest of the year to pay off while I select outfit after outfit to wear on my six days in San Diego. I have to look my best. Isn’t that what they say after a breakup? You need show them what they’re missing.
If Bill notices I’m dressed in completely new clothes when I front at the airport on Monday to fly to Seattle, he doesn’t mention it. Though, I do catch a small smile. Whatever that’s about.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Timothy
I got an email from Bill’s secretary right after Beau messaged me, informing me he would arrive in San Diego today from LA. And that he would come straight from the airport to the offices here.
Showtime. I tug on my collar, which is too tight. With nothing else to distract me, I drum my fingers on my desk, staring mindlessly out the window at the glorious weather that San Diego has put on for Angie’s arrival.
After what feels like ten fucking years, the front desk finally calls up.
“Mr. Brooks Westerhaven,” Shayla’s voice fills my office through the intercom. “Mr. Westerhaven and his PA have arrived. They’re moving to tour the offices with Harry Friedman.”
Harry is one of the board members, who is also one of the executives here. He’s kind of my right-hand man. He works like a beast to make sure that Haven Freight runs as smooth as fine whiskey.
“Thanks, Shayla.”
I hit the button to turn off the intercom, suddenly antsy in the silence of my office. I had intended to stay up here until they appeared. But I can’t wait that long. I need to see Angienow.
Striding out of my office, I offer Shayla a wave to tell her to stay at her desk as I head in the direction I know they will take, winding their way up to my office on the top floor of the building.
When I step out of the elevator, they are disappearing from the foyer down one of the corridors and stride after them. I can only see Angie’s back, but she looks incredibly stunning in a deep blue dress that hugs her curves.
Her thick hair is pulled back in a bun at the base of her skull and my fingers are itching to skate over the exposed skin of her neck. Just as Bill and Harry start through the double doors to the main floor, I reach them.
Closing my fingers around Angie’s wrist, I jerk her to a stop. She turns in surprise, her eyes widening when she sees me and I stare back at her, drinking her in. She’s even more beautiful than I remember. A pink blush tinges her lily-white cheeks, and I want to stroke them to feel the heat there.
She opens her mouth to speak, but I don’t want to do this here. With an audience. As I tug her away, Uncle Bill asks Harry a technical question, like he hasn’t noticed my appearance and my dragging his PA away by the arm.
Angie follows me up to my office, not speaking. Shayla watches us with wide eyes, half-rising out of her chair, but I wave her off, pulling Angie into my office, and kicking the door shut behind me.
When I turn to her, she opens her mouth to speak, but I’m too scared that she’s going to tell me off, so I quickly close the space between us, cupping her chin and clamping my mouth down on hers. My tongue licks along the seams of her lips until they part and plunges into her mouth.
I thought there might be a chance I never got to taste these sweet lips again. I’m savoring it now.
Encouragingly, Angie’s hands move to grip my elbows and she moans into my mouth. The sound undoes me, snapping my control. I lift her up, seating her on the desk and moving between her legs.
Angie’s hands slide from my elbows until they are cupping my neck as she kisses me back just as fiercely. Fuck, I need to be inside her. Right now. Sliding my hand up her skirt, I groan when my fingers skate over the lacy tops of her pull up stockings and hit soft, soft skin. They’re brushing her lacy panties while she moans again into my mouth when my intercom buzzes.
“Mr. Westerhaven is on his way up to see you, Mr. Brooks Westerhaven,” Shayla’s voice cuts through our embrace. Fuck.
