And then, when she finally felt like she could move her limbs and use her voice without shaking, she walked inside. What choice did she have?
All she wanted was to take off after Owen, begging him to stop and wait for her. Who cared about CUBE or anything the Harrises said? Who cared about a promotion or even her job? She’d be happy to quit on the spot. It’d be a chance to tell every last employee exactly what she thought of their crappy designs and their inhumane ads and their soulless offices and their tedious meetings that made her want to gouge out her eyes. She’d never have to make nice with Jason again.
But just because she wanted to do something didn’t mean she actually would. She wanted to buy five hundred dollar shoes and last-minute plane tickets to Bermuda. But she didn’t. For obvious reasons. It was called being an adult and dealing with consequences.
It was also called not telling off her boss to his face, because hi, she lived in the real world where people needed to keep their jobs—which also meant keeping their thoughts to themselves. She was sure plenty of people wanted to flip out on their colleagues and tell the truth. The key word there was “wanted” to. Not “actually did.”
Of course, Owen was right and Jason was an ass who’d never officially apologized to her for what he did. But hadn’t anyone ever told that goddamn hothead that there was such a thing as biting his tongue? She’d never pick a fight like he had. Let alone at someone else’s work event. And make it so painfully personal.
It was clear Owen had wanted her to take a stand in front of Jason. Even if she wouldn’t do that, he’d wanted her to at least leave with him. Show she supported him and stood by his side.
She wanted to. God, how she wanted to. This would all be so much easier if she didn’t want to—if she thought he was dead wrong and could wash her hands of him without regret.
But that wasn’t the problem.
The problem was that none of this was as simple as Owen was making it. Nothing in life was that simple. The world wasn’t black and white or good versus evil. Some things were a giant, gray soup. Some things just really, really sucked.
Owen acted like the only people who ever made compromises were morally bankrupt. But sometimes, people made compromises because they had to. Full stop.
This was the compromise she had to make. She was living the only option she had. Biting her tongue wasn’t always a bad thing. Especially when she just wanted to move on.
She went first to the bathroom to check her makeup and fix her hair. She ran the tap water as cold as it would go and cupped her hand under the stream to drink, working to clear her head. The last thing she wanted was to walk back into that gallery. But she had to.
She couldn’t be the assistant who ran off at the company gala and never returned. The one who was cheated on and made a huge public fuss about how she couldn’t let it go. Who brought the guy from the Crush List and then went off sobbing when—surprise, surprise—everything went wrong.
No. She needed to glide back into the party, take a fresh glass of champagne, and pretend to sip it as she made pleasant, polite small-talk with everyone she could.
She was advertising material. She was promotion material. She could handle whatever came her way.
She didn’t know what she’d say to Jason, but she was pretty sure it wouldn’t matter. What mattered was that she not look defeated. That she showed she was still on Team CUBE. Her drama wasn’t going to affect them again.
Go get ‘em, she mouthed to the woman facing her in the bathroom mirror. Fresh lipstick. A practiced smile. She could do it.
The bathroom door opened, and a woman walked in.
“Oh, there you are, Rose. I’ve been looking all over for you! Someone said you’d left—is everything all right?”
And it was on.
The woman who’d come in was one rung up from her on the company ladder. They’d started at around the same time, but she’d been promoted first. Something about how she exhibited “that drive.” CUBE was always looking for drive. Now they were looking for it from Rose.
“I’m great!” she said brightly, turning away from the mirror. From the face that had been looking back at her.
She tried not to think of it as turning away from herself.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Owen sat at his desk in the wood shop. He picked up his phone. Put it down. Picked it up. Put it down again. Goddamn it, it shouldn’t be this agonizing to not call someone. You just…didn’t call them. It wasn’t rocket science. So why was it so fucking hard?
He tried not to think about the things he and Rose had done in his workshop, right against this very desk where he was now grinding a pencil to a nub.
The past wasn’t important. Only the future mattered anymore.
He barely had any sleep the last few nights. He couldn’t believe how hard it was to sleep alone, without the warmth of Rose’s body beside him. He missed her quiet noises, the way she stretched like a cat across the bed each morning before dragging herself up and straight to the coffeemaker.
His bed felt small and cramped and empty. So he avoided it altogether, spending his nights in the workshop instead. He told himself it was because he had to nail this next commission. But sometimes, late at night, it was hard to see the point. Not just of the commission, but of anything.
Rose deserved to be with someone who could succeed. She deserved to be with someone she could be proud of. Not someone she’d want to hide from at a work function and pretend she didn’t know. Not someone who’d make her want to leave separately so she didn’t have to spend another second with him.
Not someone who tried to be there for her—but only wound up getting it wrong.
The memory of that night still made him burn. How he’d wanted to stand up for Rose. How he’d said those things and wound up so angry instead.
He worked the sandpaper even harder over the table he was making. He had to get this done. Make it perfect. Stop thinking in circles about what he couldn’t change.
Upstairs, the door unlatched. His father’s footsteps creaked slowly down the stairs.
“Dad?” he called. He pushed his sketches to the side and rushed over. “Don’t come down. I’ll get you whatever you need.”
“No, you stay there,” his dad insisted. “You act like I have one foot in the grave, but it’s not like I can’t handle a flight of stairs.”
Reluctantly, Owen relented. Hank leaned heavily on the railing. But eventually, he made it. Owen pulled over a chair.
“At least sit down,” he said.
His dad waved his hand for him to hush, but he took a seat anyway.
“We need to talk,” his father said. Owen pushed down the lump rising in his throat. It was time.
The workshop was floundering. He’d wanted to pretend Rose was wrong, and things were different, but he couldn’t deny the facts anymore. One commission at a time couldn’t sustain them. Especially not when he had the insider’s perspective on what he was up against at CUBE.
Crowley & Sons was going to fail. Owen couldn’t make this work.
His dad cleared his throat. Owen braced himself for what was coming.
“You’re working too damn hard,” Hank said.
Owen shook his head. “The problem is that I’m not working hard enough.”
Hank gave him a classic “dad” look. “This isn’t sustainable.”
Owen blew off the dust that had accumulated from the sandpaper. “I’m sorry I let you down,” he said. He couldn’t even raise his head. He couldn’t look his father in the eyes.
He expected his dad to sigh then tell him some lie like how everything happened for a reason, or it would all be okay in the end. Or else get mad, get honest, and say how disappointed he was.
But instead he said, “What are you talking about?”
Owen looked up from the table. “What are you talki
ng about?”
“You slowing down,” his dad said, reaching out a hand to stop Owen from picking up the sandpaper again. “Taking it easier before you burn yourself out. Why?” His white brows knitted together. “What did you think I was talking about?”
“Closing the business,” Owen said. “If I can’t make ends meet.”
“Goodness,” his dad sputtered. “Is that why you’re doing this?”
“Doing what? Working?”
“Not eating, not sleeping, hiding from the world…”
Owen snatched back the sandpaper. “I’m sleeping just fine.”
His dad let out a snort. “You think I don’t hear you tossing and turning? You think I don’t know you’ve been down here every night? What happened, Owen?”
“Nothing,” Owen said. But he still couldn’t look his father in the eye.
“Ever since you came home in that tux, you’ve been acting different. Working too much, not sleeping at all. Did you even have breakfast today?”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
His dad exhaled heavily and leaned back in his chair. Owen could feel the man’s eyes on him. Every time he looked up, he had to look away. It was too much to be this scrutinized. To be this seen.
“Are we done here?” he asked. “I really do have to get this finished.”
“Where’s Rose?” his dad asked, like Owen hadn’t just said anything. “She hasn’t been around in a while.”
“She’s busy.”
“I see,” his dad said.
Owen threw down the sandpaper. “You have something to say, come out and say it.”
His dad held up his palms. “I was just asking about the girl.”
“The girl has her own life. She has things to do.”
“You let her get away,” his dad said. “Didn’t you?”
“How can you assume it was my fault?” Owen said before realizing his voice was way too loud. And that, by saying that, he’d already given everything away—that something had happened, that it was over, that he really had gone ahead and ruined it.
“Did I say that?” his dad said calmly.
“You didn’t have to.”
“You still need to slow down on this commission. Take your time with every detail. Do it right.”
“I can’t,” Owen reminded him. “If I’ve got a client, then I need to make sure it gets done. That’s why people shop at those other places. When they know what they want, they expect it to be delivered right away.”
His dad had spent his own share of late nights in the workshop polishing one last angle, finishing one last piece. He should have known what it was like.
But Hank shook his head.
“If people want something delivered at the click of a button, they can shop at CULT.”
“CUBE,” Owen corrected him, trying not to laugh. After what he’d seen at the gala, “CULT” did seem fitting.
“I don’t care what it’s called.”
“You should—they’re the ones putting us out of business.”
“No one’s putting us out of business.”
“That’s not true.”
His dad gave Owen a look that Owen recognized all too well—if only because it was an expression his own face wore so many times. “You act like everything was easy right up until the moment you took over, and now for the first time the business has hit a few bumps. You forget how hard I worked down here? You don’t remember your grandfather working at all?”
“No,” Owen said carefully. “I remember.” He did. Late nights, his grandmother padding down the stairs, telling Hank to turn off the light and come up. His father coming up in the early morning, dark circles under his eyes, reaching for more coffee as Owen reluctantly got ready for school.
But that was different. His dad didn’t understand. “This isn’t ‘a few bumps.’ It’s not the same as before.”
“Lots of places come and go. Some of them make more money and have more business than we could ever imagine. But you know what? It’s more business than we could handle. And more money than we need. So don’t worry about those people. Don’t fill your head with what they’re up to. You worry about you, Owen. Your best work, your best day. You compare what you make today with what you made yesterday—not what some factory is cranking out on some machine. This couple that ordered the dresser—they don’t think they made a mistake. It’s not like they’re going to suddenly discover the CUBE catalog and change their mind.”
“It’s happened before,” Owen said.
“And it’ll happen again. But you keep working. The people who want your work, your work,” he repeated, “they’ll find you. They’ll want what you have. That’s why you have to take your time and make it right. This couple is willing to wait. They want the perfect piece, the piece of their dreams. The one they’re going to have for their whole lives together and pass on to their kids, and their kids’ kids, and so on. The one that everyone is going to fight over at the funeral.” He laughed. “It sucks, but hey—that’s one of the signs you’re doing it right. When someone comes and tells you how all the siblings were up in arms.”
Owen sighed. “I know, Dad. And all that sounds great. But it’s not like that anymore.”
“We’ve gone through tough times in the past, Owen. And we’ll go through lean years again. But we own the building. We’ll always have enough for food and utilities. I know my medication has put a strain on things, but we’ll adjust. So tell me the truth this time. What’s really going on?”
There was no avoiding it anymore. Owen took a breath and told his father everything—about Rose’s job, how they met, and everything CUBE was up to. “It’s so much more cutthroat—and she’s part of it. I don’t know if I can do it anymore.”
“There’s always going to be someone who wants a quick fix,” his dad said. “But there’s going to be someone who wants the real deal, too. You—” He tapped the desk with his index finger then pointed it at Owen. “You get to decide which side you want to be on. Do you want what’s fast and easy? Or do you want what’s going to last? I wouldn’t be so quick to think you know which one Rose would choose. You have more in common than you know.”
Owen couldn’t respond. How could he explain to his father that it wasn’t that simple? He could try as hard as he could. But that didn’t mean anyone would want what he was offering. That went for the furniture—and for love. Even if he still wanted to be with Rose…that didn’t mean he had a chance.
“I don’t know,” he said again.
“Don’t know—or scared to?”
He looked up, wishing his father didn’t always have to go straight for the jugular like that. “You forget that it’s not all up to me.”
“Not always,” his dad conceded. “You can’t control what someone else will do. You can’t tell them what they do and don’t want. All you can control is what you bring to the table. Your best work, son. Your best self.”
His best self. What if Owen didn’t know who that was?
It was supposed to be someone who didn’t compromise, didn’t take shit, didn’t let the Harrises of the world push him around. He spoke up for what was right. Spoke up for the people he loved. Yes, loved. Even if it wasn’t pretty. That was the point, wasn’t it? Of taking care of his dad, taking care of the business. Not taking the easy way out.
And yet…
When he thought about the person who’d stormed away from Rose that night, could he really say that was a person he was proud of—a person he wanted to be?
His dad stood up creakily. “Come on,” he said. “You haven’t seen sunlight for days. Let’s get out of here. I’ll take you out for pancakes.”
Owen shook his head. Someone else might have jumped at the chance, but he knew better. Every time his dad took him out for pancakes w
hen he was growing up, they’d sit at the same booth at the same diner, and Owen would get a stern talking to as he stuffed his mouth.
“You gave me a lecture already.”
His father laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re too old for blueberry pancakes.”
Owen reached for his keys. “Not a chance, Dad.”
“And you’re never too old to be reminded of what you already know,” Hank said. “Quality is worth investing in. You need to show that sweet Rose she’s worth investing in, too. Don’t wait too long to learn that. Don’t wait until everything is gone.”
The sunlight was blinding as Owen held the door open and walked his father outside. It was such a simple thing, getting pancakes with his old man. But the words kept ringing in his ears, the most important lesson his father had to give.
Don’t wait until everything is gone.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Wait.” Amanda grabbed her arm, making Rose turn toward her again. “You’re telling me he left?”
“Yeah, well. It was better than him staying and yelling at everybody some more,” Rose grumbled.
“Neither of those are very good options.”
“Which is why I’m single yet again.” She reached for another piece of Jessie’s homemade cinnamon rolls while Talia opened the vodka. Forget mimosas—news of Rose’s recent disaster called for Bloody Marys at this month’s besties brunch, their regular potluck get-together. The four friends were squeezed around Amanda’s kitchen table, which was piled high with bagels, cream cheese, lox, fresh fruit, cinnamon rolls, coffee, and plenty of freshly grated horseradish.
Rose took a sip of her drink. Then she explained it to Amanda all over again—how Owen had gotten into a fight, blabbed to everybody about how Jason cheated on her, and she’d had to go back in and patch things up by herself.
All night, and now every day at work since then, Jason would give her a simpering little smile and ask if she was “holding up okay,” like it was obvious she’d been an idiot to hook up with Owen, and everyone knew it.
At least now Rose knew it, too. Owen hadn’t called, hadn’t texted, hadn’t done anything to apologize. No, “I’m sorry,” or, “Just making sure you’re okay,” or “Can we talk?” Not a single word to let her know he was thinking about her at all.
Wrong Bed, Right Man (Accidental Love) Page 15
