Maybe she’d have a cup of tea at the coffee bar there and finish setting up her phone. The change of scenery would be nice. Last night, she’d dreamed she was living in a Pottery Barn catalog, which was better than dreaming about Cameron—even if she’d been flat and someone had kept turning the page, leaving her in the dark until she appeared on the next page. So, come to think of it, the dream had been about Cameron.
But she wasn’t going to think about that. Why bother? It was a waste of energy to think about things she could do nothing about.
Amy loved the sound the vintage silver bell made when she entered the shop. The owner, Chelsea Seymore, looked up from where she was arranging pumpkin treat bags underneath a banner that read Happy Halloween.
“Amy! We haven’t seen you in nearly a week!”
Had it only been a week? Yes. It had been two days before her abandonment, as she’d come to think of that day. She’d come in to buy some fall rubber stamps and some gold, rust, and brown LePens. Of course, those things were gone now, still a bitter pill to swallow. Maybe she needed to pretend that there had been a fire and she was just lucky to have gotten out alive.
And she was alive. She didn’t have a plan for the future, but she didn’t need one yet anyway. She had a job to do for Emile and, whether he had known it or not when he hired her, it needed doing. She was itching to get into his closet and drawers, but that wasn’t something she could do without talking to him about it. He might want to hide his porn.
“Hi, Chelsea.” The shop was alive with displays of Halloween cards, masks, and party supplies, with vintage-look paper honeycomb jack-o’-lanterns, black cats, and ghosts hanging from the ceiling.
“How are things with you?” Chelsea asked.
“Same old, same old,” Amy lied—but was it really a lie as far as Chelsea and her employees, Merry and Harper, were concerned? All they knew about her was she was a tea drinker, gift wrap hoarder, and bullet journaler. All that was still true, even if her gift wrap had gone up in metaphorical smoke.
“Can I help you find anything?”
“No. I know my way around.”
Chelsea laughed. “That’s true—maybe even better than I do.”
It was almost sad how happy selecting the small dot grid journal made her—orange for the season. Then she thought better of it and exchanged it for Sound purple. Emile’s first game was tomorrow night, and she had already discussed with him what she could do to make his game day go better. Maybe that’s the first thing she’d put in his bullet journal. She perused the rubber stamps, looking for hockey-themed ones, when she noticed how expensive they were. She hadn’t had to think about that before. Plus, all her stamp pads had been destroyed in the “fire.” She chose a package of hockey stickers instead and was selecting a purple LePen when Chelsea appeared at her elbow with a cup of tea.
“Orange cinnamon,” she said.
“How did you know I wanted that?” Amy asked.
Chelsea winked. “I know things. Would you like me to put your items at the register?”
“That would be great.” Otherwise, she’d be tempted to start putting lists in the journal right away—and what she really needed to do while she had her tea was to finish setting up her phone. All she’d done so far was switch out her SIM card and put Emile in her contact list. She needed to reconnect with social media. And the first thing she intended to do was sever her connections with Cameron’s clients. It wasn’t her job to be his watchdog anymore. If they started posting naked pictures on Instagram and tweeting disparaging remarks about their opponents, let him find out the best way he could.
And when she finished that, she would shop for something for Emile’s carb-up, night-before-the-game meal. She might make time to buy herself a pair of jeans, since Emile seemed to take for granted that she would attend the game tomorrow night at Bridgestone Arena.
She passed off her items to Chelsea. “You can go ahead and ring it up, if you like. That’s all I need today.” Or at least all she could afford, though the black and orange polka dot gift wrap and black ribbon with glitter skeleton heads were calling her name, calling hard.
She settled into one of the small tables in the coffee bar area. First, she texted her new number to the dozen or so people in her contact list who she actually wanted to be in contact with—her grandparents, immediate family, two cousins, a couple of high school friends, and two of her former employees who she considered to be friends and now worked for Order This in New York.
She could never remember her social media log in information, but at least all that was written in the journal that was in her purse at the time of the abandonment instead of the one with her other passwords.
First Facebook. One, two, three, in. Remember me. Easy peasy. There was a new batch of cinnamon peach cider available at The Peach Stand, her friend Lulu posted pictures of her little girl wearing a Halloween costume from Frozen, and her brother’s best friend had changed his profile to a picture of UGA with “How ’Bout Them Dawgs?” underneath. She considered unfriending Cameron’s clients now, but decided it would be more efficient to get all her accounts operational first. Then she’d make a master list and methodically sever ties with all of them.
Next Twitter. Why had she started following so many people? Probably boredom. It was mostly bullet journalers and things having to do with organizing and recipes. Nothing popped up of interest. Time to move on to Instagram.
But something stopped her. Did Cameron still have his Twitter account? Probably. She shouldn’t look. He only tweeted things about sports anyway. Still . . . She needed to go to his account to block him anyway, and block him she would! He wouldn’t care, but it would feel good.
One click and there she was. She didn’t mean to look, not really, but there was a whole string of the same tweet: congratulations, congratulations, congratulations. For what? Being at least six million dollars richer? That had been her net worth the last time she’d noticed. Surely he hadn’t tweeted that. Maybe he had a new client—that much-wanted baseball or basketball player. She had to know.
A scroll. A click—and her world fell apart, just when she thought it couldn’t fall apart any further.
Married. Not only married, but married to Reynolds Fallon’s sister. He’d gotten married today! Today—just about the time when she’d been labeling all the shelves in Emile’s newly tidied kitchen so that maybe he could preserve the order when she was gone. The cinnamon in the tea that had been so soothing suddenly set her stomach on fire, and her vision blurred.
Why had she done this here, where she had to maintain? “We have to maintain, even when we don’t feel like it,” was one of her grandmother’s favorite adages. No one had to ever ask, “Maintain what?” It was evident by the way Mimi held her mouth and the cadence of her words. Dignity. You must maintain dignity even when you don’t get to be homecoming queen, your team loses the game in the final round, your cousin dies and you want to throw yourself in the open grave. And when the person you thought you were going to marry and trust for the rest of your life steals your money, abandons you in a quilt store, marries someone else, and—what else? If there was something else, she had to know right now.
She rubbed the blur out of her eyes and read on.
“Sources say the newlyweds are expecting a baby in June.”
Well, hell. Hell and damnation. She didn’t have the energy to think of worse words. But, then, theologically speaking, were there worse words, really? Than to literally be damned to hell—whether it was the fiery hell of fundamental Christians or the Arctic hell of Beowulf, wasn’t hell the worst place a body could land? Even worse than sitting single at a table for two in a fancy, Halloween-bedecked paper store, forced to maintain, while the proprietor buzzed around and the billionaire socialite was probably off on her honeymoon to Greece or the South of France on your dime with the baby that was supposed to be yours in her womb?
Well. There would be no jeans bought today. And it was a good thing she hadn’t taken Em
ile’s Dinty Moore pasta meals to the soup kitchen yet, because that’s what he’d have to carb up with tonight. There were limits to how long and under what circumstances one could maintain. Even Mimi knew that.
“Let it out, baby,” she’d said to Amy when they’d finally returned from the funeral for her cousin Jayne Ann, who had been fine one day and dead of meningitis the next. “Cry. Scream. Throw every dish in the house. I’ll help you.” Mimi had had considerably less patience for the state football championship that didn’t turn out like everyone had expected.
And what would she say about this? “I told you so?” No. That wasn’t her style, but in terms of sympathy, it would probably rank somewhere below a certain Campbell High homecoming incident, when Amy did not bring home the crown, and above a bad haircut—and Mimi was particular about her hair. She didn’t, however, have much energy for the antics of men who weren’t worth it.
Amy’s tea had grown cold, and her phone screen had gone to black. She brought the phone back to life and exited Twitter. Instagram and Snapchat would have to wait.
Why had she walked here? She knew without even lifting them that her feet weighed five hundred pounds each. How could she possibly pick them up to cross the small shop to pay for her things, much less make them take her the three blocks back to Star View Towers.
The bell above the door tinkled its sweet little song, and it was quickly followed by the sweeter sound of a little girl’s voice and a mother’s laughter.
That’s what Amy had been holding out for. She wasn’t sure she had fully realized until this moment that she wasn’t going to get it—but Cameron was. He was going to have it all.
She was still holding her phone when it rang, and she almost dropped it. Emile. Duty calling.
“Hello?” So far, so good. Her voice was the voice of someone who could maintain.
“Ma chèrie! Où es-tu? ” Clearly, Emile did not have a Mimi who expected him to maintain. He was obviously distressed and didn’t care who knew it. The question was why. Maybe something was wrong with Gabriella. Maybe he was in trouble with the team.
“English, Emile.” She knew he’d used a term of endearment, but after that, she had nothing.
“Where are you?’
“Foolscap and Vellum.”
“What? I do not know this place.”
“Stationery store next to the CVS.”
“I know the CVS. I must come get you.”
“Yes,” Amy said. “Please.” She took three deep breaths and made her way to the counter, where the mother was paying for a large quantity of party items, including the fox mask the little girl wore.
The child looked up at Amy. “Where’s your little girl?”
Indeed, where? “I don’t have a little girl yet. But I’d like to.” Was that still true? Who the hell knew?
“Oh. It’s my birthday on Halloween. I’m having a party.”
“That sounds like fun,” Amy said. “I see you’re a fox.”
The child nodded vigorously. “I bite people and give them rabies.”
“Eva Caroline!” The woman took the little girl’s hand and met Amy’s eyes. “I’m sorry. Her daddy’s fault entirely.” But Amy could tell from the light in her eyes there probably wasn’t much this child’s father did that was displeasing.
“Thank you, Lucy,” Chelsea said. “I’ll ship the rest of your order as soon as it comes in tomorrow.”
“Plenty of time. Thank you.” Amy watched them go. A mommy, a daddy, and a little girl with a Halloween birthday. Such things did exist.
Chelsea would have chatted, but Amy paid for her things and went to wait outside.
As she stood on the sidewalk, she couldn’t help but think of another sidewalk and another day when she was waiting for a man to pick her up. But before she could give it a second thought, the county fair ride car with the wolf on the hood screeched to a halt and double-parked in front of her.
Relieved, she started to move toward it, but Emile jumped from the driver’s seat and was beside her in two bounds.
When he stood before her, his face wore such a mix of anger, compassion, and bewilderment that she no longer had to wonder why he was distressed. It was on her behalf.
Horns blared. Emile tossed an annoyed look over his shoulder, wrapped an arm around Amy’s waist, and installed her in the car. And there was no other word than installed for it. If she’d had to move under her power, it wouldn’t have happened.
They were in the elevator before he spoke.
“You know.” It wasn’t a question.
She nodded.
“I tried to find you, to tell you.”
“How did you find it?”
“How did you?” He tossed the question back.
“Twitter.”
“Well, there you go.” The elevator doors opened. “Will your family see?”
Good question. “I don’t think so.”
“Good.” And they were back in Pottery Barn, and it was a comfort. The shock began to wear away. They looked at each other for what seemed like a long time.
Emile raised his hands in the air. “I will see that he is ruined. People like me. I will spread the word. He will have no more clients.”
“No,” Amy said. “Please. I told you before. I want to let this die.”
It was as if he hadn’t heard her. “I will call Reynolds Fallon. We will get your money back. That family will throw him out. He will have nothing.”
“Emile, no. I am telling you—this is my business. I want you to stay out of it. Do you hear me? I let it happen.”
“Are you saying you deserve it?”
“No. Maybe.”
“How could you think it? That you deserved what he did because you trusted him? Non. Non.” He spread his hands before him and shook his head. Then he stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders. “Amy, this man must not be allowed to get away with this. I know you think you would be embarrassed, but you wouldn’t be. You would be triumphant.”
“Emile, are you listening to me? I said no. I want it left alone. I want you to stay out of it. Triumph might be important to you, but it’s not to me. And there is more at stake here than whether I am or am not embarrassed. There’s a child to consider.”
“And you think this fils de pute would be a fit father?”
Ha! She used to think so. “That’s not for us to say. The fact is, good or bad, he’s going to be a father. If his wife and family find out what kind of man he is, so be it, but I’ll have no part of it.”
Emile half closed his eyes and he seemed to be thinking. “One question. Did he ever hit you?”
“Hit me? Of course not. Why would you think that?”
“Why wouldn’t I? But at least there’s that. Forgive me for my rant, but I am very, very angry that this man has insulted you like this in addition to his other evildoing.”
There was no doubting his anger. He wore it like a full-length cloak. If this man, this good man she knew so little of, but who had been good to her and loved his sister, could be angry on her behalf, she could be angry, too. She let it move in and take hold.
If she had been writing in her journal, she would have written:
I was good to Cameron.
I loved Cameron.
I helped Cameron in every way I could.
I trusted him.
He betrayed me in the most deceitful, calculating way possible.
I might have brought some of what happened on myself, but he has no justification.
I do not deserve it.
Emile spoke again. “You’ve had a shock. I don’t have hard liquor in the house, but I have wine. I’ll get you some. Please. Go sit and I’ll bring it. Then we can talk. Or not. Whatever pleases you.”
But she didn’t sit. She followed him into the kitchen and leaned against the counter and watched him open the refrigerator.
It was when he bent over to get the wine that everything changed.
She was thankful that Clear Valley Vineyards ha
d sent such a large variety of white wines and that she had chilled one of each, because as he riffled through them intoning the names as he went, his Lululemon-clad bottom remained on perfect display—and perfect it was. Round, muscular, and beautiful. How could she have not noticed it before? And his powerful thighs? His mouth was a wonder of the world to be sure, but that athletic body was a wonder of a universe full of worlds.
She wanted him, wanted him right here on this kitchen floor. And she wanted Cameron to not be the last man who had touched her.
Without thinking, with nothing to guide her but her feelings, she quickly moved behind him.
“What do you think, chérie? Moscato, Sauvignon Blanc, Riesling,” he muttered.
All sweet, but not as sweet as those thighs.
And she put her arms around him, placed her hands on the inside of his knees, and slid her palms up his legs, relishing the feel of his muscles as she went.
His breath caught. “Amy?”
“Yes. It’s me. Who did you think?”
“It’s not who, so much as what? What is going on here?”
“You said whatever pleases me. You please me and I want you.” When she slid her hands up the legs of his shorts, she found that he was erect and hard before her hands closed on him.
She had never been so bold before, but she’d never been gutted before, so maybe one thing followed the other. He was paralyzed, maybe from shock, maybe from desire. Impossible to say which, and she didn’t care. She played and stroked with both hands, enjoying the fullness of him and the sounds of his breath coming hard and fast.
Damn Lululemon and that infernal lining. There was too much fabric there, and she couldn’t find her way around it. Finally, she reluctantly removed her hands, but when she reached for the waistband of his shorts, he let out a moan that was a mix of frustration and regret.
“Amy. No.” He placed his hands over hers to stop her.
No? He was saying no to her!
He turned to face her and placed his hands on her shoulders.
Face Off: Emile (Nashville Sound Book 1) Page 10
