by Bay, Louise
“What are you, my mother? Give me whatever it is you brought and fuck off.”
He ignored me and plonked himself onto the sofa. “Where’s Scarlett?” he asked.
I groaned. “I have no idea. At work, I presume.”
“You presume? Aren’t you two joined at the hip?”
“My grandfather died. She has her money. I have my company. End of story.”
“Oh, so that’s what we’re dealing with.” John stretched his arm along the back of the big sofa, as if settling in. I glanced at the time on the oven. I wanted him gone. The Young and the Restless was about to come on and I wanted to know whether or not the woman with the blonde hair managed to escape from the woman who’d kidnapped her.
“I don’t have time for this. Why are you here?”
He grinned, but otherwise ignored me. “It all makes sense now, my friend. The pizza boxes. The elasticized pants. The clear aversion to showering.”
I was pretty sure it had been a couple of days since I stood in the shower, but who was counting?
“You can’t just not come to work because you and Scarlett broke up,” he said. “Pick up a sport, go buy a Bugatti, bang some other chick, hell, have a threesome. But get your shit together. We’ve got a business to run.”
“I’m sick. I must have picked it up on the plane—” The thought of banging some other chick, as he put it, churned my stomach.
“You fly private, you dick. People who fly private don’t pick up germs on a plane.”
“Well, I’m not a doctor. I don’t know where I caught it.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “My muscles are wound tighter than a corkscrew, and I’ve got a wicked headache.”
“More like a bad case of heartache.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You might not recognize it, and who could blame you? The only organ you’ve been using around women all these years is your tiny dick—”
“Hey, now that’s a step too far. My dick is plenty big enough, thank you. You’re just jealous.”
He rolled his eyes. “Sort your shit out. You’re never going to get back in the game looking like that.” He waved his hand up and down my body as he winced. “This is New-York-Fucking-City. Women have standards.”
I collapsed on the sofa opposite him and pulled the furry blanket that Scarlett had left over me. All her stuff was still here, which gave me some hope that I’d see her again. It had been part of the reason I’d stayed home the day after I’d seen her at her office. In case she came for her things—and gave me the opportunity to convince her to give us a second chance. Now, I couldn’t face going out. I didn’t want to speak to or look at anyone who wasn’t her.
“What the fuck are you doing with that blanket? Have you reverted to your five-year-old self?”
“I’m cold.” Her scent lingered on the fabric, letting me imagine she hadn’t really left.
“Then do some exercise or put on a sweater. My God. Did Scarlett take your balls when she moved out?”
When she moved out. I hated those words. I leaned forward, and put my head in my hands. “What do I do, man? I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I think about her all the time.” There was no point in denying it to John anymore. My defenses were crumbling.
“Aww, shit,” he said. “I’m sorry. I can see you’re really cut up about it. I thought you were just sulking.”
I sighed. “I’ve never been in this situation before. Women don’t leave me.” I’d made sure they never got an opportunity.
“So now you care about someone and you just give up? Just like that?”
“What else can I do? I can’t force her to want to be with me.” I didn’t need shit from John on top of everything else. “All I know is that this hurts like a bitch.”
“I know. Unlike you, I’ve had my heart broken before. But you’ll get it. But first, I’m going to burn all your sweat pants.”
I chuckled and grabbed my stomach. I couldn’t remember the last time I laughed.
“Why don’t you get cleaned up and we’ll go hit some bars, talk to a few girls—you know you’ll feel better when you have some hot, naked woman in your bed.”
My stomach hurt for a different reason now. “The only hot, naked girl I want in my bed is Scarlett.”
“Then make it happen,” he said.
“I told you, I can’t make her come back to me.”
He paused and took a deep breath. “You’re Ryder-fucking-Westbury. You want her back, then you get her back.”
“It’s not that simple. I really hurt her. And now she doesn’t want me back. Says she’s bad at relationships.”
He jumped to his feet. “That’s good. Don’t you see?” He stared at me, grinning.
“That you’re being a callous bastard? Yeah, that’s clear.”
“Jesus, you’re touchy. I meant, obviously if she was that upset, then she cares . . . and it’s not too late.”
“She walked out. Told me it was over—that we were better off apart. I was an idiot. I served her with divorce papers. Well, I didn’t serve her, my law—”
“Look, I don’t care. If you want her back, get off your ass and go get her back.”
I shook my head. “You make it sound simple.”
He sighed as if I were the dumbest bastard on the planet, then took out his cell and dialed. All I could do was sit and watch. I knew the situation was hopeless.
“I need two flipcharts, some Sharpies and a lot of Post-its.”
“What are you doing?” I asked as he hung up the phone.
“We are making a plan.”
“A plan?”
“To get Scarlett back—assuming that’s what you want?”
“Of course that’s what I want. I love her, man.”
“Have I ever steered you wrong?”
He’d always been the most fantastic friend to me. “Well, there was that one time in Vegas—”
“Not funny,” he said, shooting me a glare that promised painful retribution. “So, the plan. Step one—get your smelly ass in the shower then dressed in pants that have a fly. Then we’ll get started.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Scarlett
“Thanks, just put it on the counter,” I told the UPS guy, pointing to the maple cupboard on the far wall of my office. He set his delivery down and held out his electronic pad to sign. Again. It was his fifth visit to Cecily Fragrance this week, and it was only Wednesday.
“Who sends a basket of DVDs?” Violet asked, poking through the cellophane.
“It’s better than the kale that arrived yesterday.”
“Someone sent you a basket of kale? That’s sick. Aren’t you meant to get champagne and truffles? Or dim sum? Has New York changed so much since Working Girl?” Violet sighed dramatically.
“You weren’t even born when Working Girl released. It’s not like the eighties were your glory days.”
“No, they were New York’s glory days. Now this place is all kale smoothies and working nineteen hours a day.”
I shut the door behind the courier and turned to find Violet tearing through the wrapper and taking out the movies. “Speaking of classic movies, these are good,” Violet said.
I knew what the movies would be. Casablanca, North by Northwest, An Affair to Remember. Our Friday night movies. I’d even managed to make him watch The King and I once.
“Who are they from?” Violet asked.
“Ryder,” I said, sitting back down at my desk. I hadn’t heard from him since I’d left him standing in my office almost two weeks ago.
She turned and I felt her glare on my back.
“Ryder? To say sorry?”
I shrugged. “I have no idea. I’m not interested.”
“Have you seen him?” she asked, wandering toward my desk.
“Yes, I told you that he came by and said he didn’t know the divorce papers had been sent to me.”
“But, I thought you hadn’t heard from him since?” She sat down opposite me, tapping the card she�
��d pulled from the basket against her knee.
“Yeah. That lasted for about a week, then I got an email. Then these deliveries started to arrive twice a day like clockwork.”
“Twice a day?” She held out the card to me. “What does that say?”
I didn’t want to open it. Every time I read one of the cards, I missed him a little bit more. “I don’t know.”
“Then I’ll open it if you don’t.” She snatched the envelope back and tore it open.
I tilted my head back and looked up at the ceiling.
“I miss Friday night movie night. I miss you. I love you. Your husband, Ryder,” she read. “Scarlett. Wow—you can’t just ignore this. What are you going to do?”
“Nothing, of course,” I said, turning back to my desk. “It’s over. He’ll get bored eventually.”
“Scarlett. He’s wooing you.” She splayed her fingers wide, holding out the card. “It’s like a movie or something. Why don’t you want him to?”
“It’s better this way. We’re both free.” I couldn’t spend the rest of my life waiting for him to leave, worried that he’d stop loving me.
“Hey, when did you get so cynical? He’s saying he loves you. And I imagine a lot of women have waited to hear those words from him.”
“Thanks for that, Violet.” But she was right. He’d soon be back to dating a million women.
“I’m just saying, this isn’t a man who needs to work for it, but he is. I think he really cares about you.”
“So? Honestly, Violet, why prolong the inevitable? If I was to call him up now and say, okay, let’s go back to how things were—or whatever he thinks he wants to do—eventually it’s going to end. It’s always going to end. I’m just skipping to the good part here.” I was saving myself heartache further down the line. If we didn’t last then I didn’t stand a chance. “There’s no point in going through a breakup twice.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe it will work out and you’ll grow old. Have babies.” She tossed me the card and it skidded across the desk.
“Life doesn’t work out like that.”
“Mom and Dad worked out like that. Harper and Max are doing a good impression of a happy couple. Love finds a way.”
I turned to her and looked her in the eye. “Not for me.”
“Then, my gorgeous sister, tell me why you accept these deliveries? If you’re so convinced you and Ryder aren’t meant to be, why don’t you reject them?”
Part of me didn’t want to let go. Not yet. I wasn’t quite ready. I shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t want to make a scene.” I needed to wean myself off him slowly, rather than go cold turkey.
“Well if you say so. Did you go back and get your stuff?”
“No. I asked him to box it up and send it to me.”
“What did he say?”
“No.” His response had been ridiculous. He’d replied to my email with a statement about how I’d need everything when I moved back in. The man was delusional. “Look, there’s no point in talking about it. It’s over.”
Violet sighed. “I don’t think even you believe that. And I certainly don’t.”
I snapped my head up at the tap on my glass door. It was the courier again. Violet scrambled to the door. “Sorry, dude, I forgot this,” he said as he handed Violet a padded envelope.
“More gifts,” she said. “If you don’t like it and it’s expensive, can I keep it?” she asked, handing me the delivery.
“Don’t be a brat.” It was Ryder’s handwriting. Curiosity overtook my desire to cut off Violet’s commentary and I turned the envelope over, opened it and reached inside.
I pulled out a small box with a note on top of it. The blue ink definitely wasn’t Ryder’s handwriting. Perhaps it was his lawyer. My stomach twisted.
Dearest Scarlett,
You are now Duchess of Fairfax. I can imagine that might seem a little strange for you, but please be assured, I’ve never met anyone so up to the task apart from my beautiful wife. Your good heart will guide you in life. Just make sure you quiet the voices that may try to drown out what it’s telling you. I know you’ve been married before and someone has made the mistake of letting you go, but don’t become cynical about the direction your heart leads you. Don’t let the past prevent you from having a beautiful future.
My dear wife’s necklace no doubt looked beautiful on you, and I want you to have these earrings that are to be worn with it. They were an apology to my love after behaving very badly toward her. I never deserved her, but after she accepted this gift, I spent my life trying to be a man she could be proud of.
Men are silly creatures. Often we don’t realize what we have when we are lucky enough to find it. And we don’t cherish the best things in our lives as we should. Ryder is a good man, but he’s still a man.
I’m giving you these earrings as a sorry in advance of all the mistakes he’ll no doubt make. There is no malice in his actions. He may be stupid, but he loves you. And you love him. Don’t waste a moment in argument for the sake of pride or principle—or just because things get difficult.
Make sure he knows what you’ll stand for and what you won’t. But ultimately, forgive him and yourself. I know you make him happy—I’ve seen it in his eyes since he first met you. And I believe I saw it in yours, too.
Indulge an old duke. Be happy.
All my love,
The Duke of Fairfax (Your grandfather-in-law)
I couldn’t hold the tears that blurred my vision as I folded up the letter and leaned forward on my desk, covering my eyes.
Chapter Thirty
Scarlett
My heels made satisfying clicks down the sidewalk as I headed north, carrying a large, white paper bag of Thai food. I’d never been to Ryder’s office. I had no idea what his routine was, or what he normally did for lunch when he wasn’t sitting across from me in my office. But he’d once issued an open invitation and today I’d decided to take him up on it.
He might not want to see me here at his place of business. He might send me away, unprepared to interrupt his day for a conversation with me. But I understood, finally, that time with Ryder was worth the risk of rejection.
About four o’clock this morning, I’d decided we needed to talk, and lunch seemed like a good time.
I’d spent the night awake. After two hours of tossing and turning, I got up and read and re-read Ryder’s grandfather’s letter.
Then I opened my laptop and scrolled through hundreds of photographs of my first husband and me, flicked through pictures of a life that seemed to belong to someone else. I smiled at some, cried at others. I finally finished mourning my first marriage. Sometime in the time since our divorce and the duke’s death, I’d moved on. I didn’t want him back. And I didn’t want my old life back anymore.
I wanted Ryder.
A life with Ryder.
And that was worth risking my pride for. That I’d received the divorce papers without ceremony or introduction wasn’t Ryder’s fault. And he wasn’t guilty of not sharing his feelings for me any more than I was guilty of not sharing my feelings for him.
I’d rejected him because I’d been hurt—prideful. And I didn’t want to be hurt again. But a life with him was worth risking my heart for. I understood that now.
I signed in at the front desk and rode the elevator up to the eleventh floor. As I stepped out into the lobby, I took a deep breath before pushing on the chrome handle of one of the double glass doors.
I was doing this.
I smiled at the receptionist. “Scarlett King for Ryder Westbury.”
I turned my head to the right to find Ryder staring at me through a glass partition in a conference room. The door to the room was open, and I heard someone call his name.
I tilted my head and held up the paper bag containing our lunch.
I saw his lips move but his eyes never left mine. Murmurings grew louder from the meeting room and people started filing out.
The last person to fill the doo
r frame was Ryder himself. “Lyndsey, please make sure I’m not interrupted,” he said, his eyes still fixed on mine. “I’m having lunch with my wife.”
I couldn’t stop the corners of my mouth from curling up.
I was careful not to touch him as he held the door open for me and I went inside the conference room. My knees were weak. My heart was weak. Neither could withstand physical contact, and we needed to talk.
I sat and began to unpack the containers of food I’d brought as he poured water into two glasses on the other side of the table from me.
I passed him his plastic knife and fork. “Thanks,” he said, smiling carefully, like he was holding back.
“You’re welcome,” I replied, tapping my finger against the carton of food in my hand. The last thing I wanted to do was eat.
“I’m sorry,” he said, but I shook my head.
“We did that,” I said. “You apologized and explained. That’s not where we are.”
The crease between Ryder’s eyebrows deepened. “Where are we then?”
“In your office, having lunch.”
He laughed tentatively and leaned back. “You’re funny.”
“I know.” I smiled and my body relaxed into the chair. This was who we were. This easiness between us—the immediate intimacy—it wasn’t born out of a contract. It was just who we were together.
“Are we husband and wife?” he asked.
“I’m scared,” I admitted, poking the noodles in front of me with my fork. It wasn’t what I’d planned to say, but no less true.
“Whatever it is that you’re afraid of, I’ll stand between you and it my whole life,” he said.
“But I’m scared of us. Of me. Of my choices. Of losing you.”
“You’ll never lose me,” he said. “I just want to make this right between us. Tell me how.”
Oh God. Was it really as simple as he made it sound?
“You can’t promise that I’ll never lose you. No one can. And that’s what’s so terrifying. My first divorce . . .” I closed my eyes as I remembered the pain. But it was a memory of the pain that I felt, not the pain itself. “It was like pouring bleach over everything I ever wanted. I had to start again. And I’m not sure I know if I could ever do that again. We were never the beginning of anything—just a means to an end, an adventure.” It was so different with Ryder and I didn’t know if that was good or bad.
