But of course I knew deep down that what they really wanted was to have me back in Glenbrook Falls for good. Mom had even braved the computer, sending me a series of chatty emails, full of small town gossip, fake cheeriness, all the while dropping hints that there was a job going in Sylvia’s Boutique on Main Street, whenever I wanted it – the very same part-time position I’d taken at weekends during high school.
The only thing more pathetic than hiding on Fallon’s sofa in my pajamas, crying, would be to actually run back to Glenbrook Falls.
Pull yourself together.
I looked up at the clock — 9 a.m.
Blake might not have been in touch, but as far as I was aware at least, I still had my job. He’d only seen Greg storm out. He probably thought we’d had a lovers’ quarrel, and that I was keeping my head down, embarrassed about the scene we’d created at his party.
I wasn’t about to lose my job, on top of everything else.
No, today I would work extra hard, and then, at seven this evening when I knew Greg had left for work, I would go over to the apartment and finally pick up a bag or two of fresh clothes.
I was just pulling my laptop up on top of the covers and settling in to do my morning’s work in my PJs, when I heard my phone ringing. I looked at it, sitting on Fallon’s grey and yellow rug:
Blake Matthews calling.
My hand shot out for it, automatically, then paused in midair.
I felt like I was caught between two different urges — on the one hand, here was the guy who’d inadvertently ended my relationship, a guy who I never wanted to see again. But at the same time, I reminded myself, this was my boss too, and unless I really felt like working in retail again, or going back to grovel at Marianne’s feet, cap in hand, then I totally needed to answer that call.
With a heavy heart, I picked up the phone on its fourth ring, swiping my thumb across the touchscreen then lifting it to my ear.
“Hello?” I said, casually as I could, as if perhaps I’d not read the Caller ID first.
“Jessica,” Blake said, his deep sonorous voice sending a flash of electricity through me as my mind span back to the sensation of his expert touch between my legs. “Listen, I’m sorry I’ve not been in touch, and I’m sorry about dropping you in it with Greg. I take it he didn’t know you’d changed jobs?”
“Yeah, well, that’s kind of academic now,” I muttered. “We, um, we broke up.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” It sounded as if there was genuine concern in his voice. “But did you really think he was right for you?”
A long pause, as I puzzled over how to answer such a direct question.
Maybe he’s right.
After all, a guy like Blake didn’t get where he was in business without possessing razor-sharp instincts.
I realized that in this whole week I’d spent crying and wishing Greg would change his mind, I hadn’t even asked myself that question. Hearing Blake’s voice once again had suddenly brought the world into sharp focus, and I remembered how alive I’d felt at his touch; stirring something deep inside me, making me realize there was a lot more out there that I was still to experience.
And I remembered again all the ways things hadn’t been right between Greg and I: our sex life, the way we didn’t laugh like we used to, or even talk to each other anymore, not really. And I knew that if things had been right, then I never would have had to lie to him in the first place.
Blake’s right.
“I guess he wasn’t, no,” I answered finally, truthfully.
Saying it aloud finally made it real, and I felt like I was released from the spell of misery I’d been under all week.
“Good,” he said. “I like to get what I want, but I’m not in the business of breaking up relationships,” he said firmly.
What does he mean by that?
I didn’t know what to say.
I was lost in a thought, a thought that took over my whole body.
Am I what he wants?
“We’ll meet for lunch. Today. We’re entering the final stage of the project now, and I need to make sure everything’s on track ... Not that I don’t trust you,” he continued, his tone suddenly light and friendly, as if he was completely unaware of how much his words had sent me into a tailspin.
“Sure,” I murmured. “Sounds great.”
“Fantastic. Juliet will let you know the address. Looking forward to it.”
And just like that he hung up the phone.
With a sudden burst of energy, I pushed back the covers and sprang up off the sofa, rushing through Fallon’s kitsch, colorful front room, trying not to accidentally step on the vinyl LPs and 7”s that seemed to be everywhere, in order to get to the bathroom.
As I reached for my toothbrush, it dawned on me that apart from the now-ruined, rain-soaked silk APC dress that I’d been wearing the night I’d knocked pathetically on her door, five days ago, I didn’t actually have any clothes of my own here.
Fallon had said I could borrow anything I needed, and I was already wearing her pajamas, but until now I hadn’t even thought about leaving the apartment.
I was going to have to take her up on her offer ...
§
The sumptuous restaurant was dimly lit and surprisingly busy, the room full of the low murmur of conversation and the soft tinkle of piano keys from the immaculately dressed pianist seated at the baby grand in the corner.
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.
The kinds of places Blake had taken me to before had been expensive, sure, exclusive even, but they’d also been kind of cool, too.
This one was different. For a start, I seemed to be the youngest person in here by about forty years. Even the staff seemed absolutely ancient. The décor was all velvet, heavy gold mirrors, and candelabras. I didn’t understand half the items on the menu, and as for the complicated arrangement of cutlery on the table before me, I hadn’t a clue where to begin.
In one of my new expensive outfits, I might have stood half a chance of not sticking out like a sore thumb in this place.
But in skinny black jeans, a leather jacket and a Bikini Kill t-shirt, I was drawing disapproving looks from practically the whole room.
“I’m honestly sorry if anything I did upset you the other night,” Blake said, while we were waiting for our food to arrive.
I’d ordered a risotto; at least I knew what that was.
“Don’t mention it,” I replied, just wishing we could get back to work, or that the food would arrive or that something would happen to stop the conversation getting any closer to that memory of his hand between my legs.
“No, I was out of line,” he persisted. “I should have been more professional. It’s just …” He looked off into the distance, his eyes burning. “I misread the signals. And for that, I’m sorry.”
“Maybe you didn’t,” I said.
I could feel that confident girl inside me taking control once again.
Did I really just say that?
“I’m sorry?”
“Maybe you didn’t misread the signals,” I said.
I could feel my heartbeat pounding through my whole body as our eyes locked across the table, Blake’s features changing almost imperceptibly as my words began to sink in.
He leant urgently towards me, his fingers brushing mine, sending a shiver of electric pinpricks all around me.
“I’d hoped that was the case,” he said, his fingers now closing around my hand, my mind flashing back once more to the feel of those very same fingers deep inside me, working the pleasure deliciously from my trembling body.
I want more.
I want you right now ...
“I’m hardly ever wrong about people, Jessica.”
And I was actually about to speak – actually about to tell him just how much I wanted him – when out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a familiar figure, heading straight for our table, a familiar figure with bright dyed red hair and a shiny purple blouse: Marianne.
No.
Not now, not here ...
I watched her approach with a cold creeping dread, hoping to God that she wouldn’t spot us, but of course she made a beeline directly for our table, her eyes wide and friendly as she beamed at Blake, then her top lip quivering in a thin snarl as she clocked me seated opposite him.
I watched her gaze flick back and forth, from Blake to me to our clasped hands, and I pulled my fingers away but it was too late.
“Well, well, well,” she murmured with a tight-lipped smile, tottering a little on her heels; she’d obviously had more than a single glass of wine with her lunch. “Hello, Blake.” She turned to me. “And if it isn’t Jessica!” she continued, her voice now dripping with sarcasm. “What an interesting outfit you’ve chosen to wear here!”
“Marianne,” Blake said calmly but firmly, obviously trying his hardest to keep things neutral. She was obviously a little drunk, and who knew what she might be capable of doing if she got angry, too.
“So, Jessica” she said, trying her hardest to keep her venom under control, all three of us acutely aware that any kind of raised voice would cause a scene in such a hushed, formal restaurant. “I didn’t know that you and Blake Matthews were quite so well acquainted.”
I shot Blake a look but he remained silent.
“But then again,” she continued dryly, almost as an afterthought, “we’ve all been rather well acquainted with Blake at one time or another, haven’t we darling?”
She gave him a cold little wink.
“Actually Jessica is redesigning my apartment,” he said, obviously angry at what she was insinuating, and knowing this would wipe the smile off her face.
Sure enough, her face dropped.
Okay, Marianne may have been used to sexual competition, and was even enjoying making the suggestion that I was Blake’s latest plaything. But now? Now we were competing professionally. I’d won the Blake Matthews account she’d wanted so badly, and she just didn’t know how to take it.
“How very cute,” she hissed. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go and vomit,” and with that she turned and tottered off, away into the darkness of the restaurant.
There was a long moment of uneasy silence. I studied my cutlery, unable to look up at Blake.
It could have been worse, I guess. She could have made a real scene. But instead she’d contented herself with a few cheap shots, and I had to be honest, one of them had hit home, hard.
What did she mean about being acquainted?
Don’t tell me Marianne’s been to one of your parties …
Don’t tell me that she’s been with you, too?
I just had to know. I looked up at him, the intensity throbbing now between us. “Has Marianne ever …” I began.
But just then, of course, our food arrived. And like that, the moment had passed. I stared down at my dish. Perhaps a good square meal was just what I needed — after all, I’d eaten almost nothing in days — and with each mouthful of the risotto I began to feel a little better: restored, and ready finally to just get back to work.
I knew I needed to focus, to get over myself and do the absolute best job I could on Blake’s apartment, so that it would find me other work, either with Matthews Hotels or elsewhere.
Once our meal was finished, we began to go back over the project, and I felt a mounting satisfaction as I realized that, yes, I had done a pretty good job. I’d planned out Blake’s apartment from start to finish, sourcing the best, most unusual materials and furnishings, leaving behind my own unique stamp at each step of the way, and most satisfying of all was that Blake actually liked what I’d done.
As we neared the end of the list, we both seemed satisfied that everything was firmly in place. Despite a few final touches — sourcing a few soft furnishings and art works to decorate — it was ready.
And with a little pang of worry, I wondered if this meant that our business relationship would also be coming to an end. After all, how much of Blake would I really see, once this project was over? Even if I was given more work in his hotel chain, who’s to say it would be Blake overseeing it, and not someone else, Alex Wiltshire, perhaps?
Once we’d run through the final points, I excused myself to go to the bathroom.
And it was there in the beautifully ornate room, standing at the long row of faucets, checking my face in the gilt-edged mirror, about to wash my hands, when I heard the farthest stall flush ominously, a door being angrily slammed open, and then that familiar woozy click of heels on polished tiles.
Oh God, not again ...
I shot a panicked look at the exit, but there was no time to escape.
“Hello, Marianne,” I said instead, politely as I could, as she joined me at the faucets. I had no choice but to play nice.
As well as her overpowering scent of Dior Poison, I also thought I could smell alcohol, possibly even gin. Back when I worked for her, she wasn’t that big a drinker, and I wondered if her frustration at losing the Matthews account had taken an even harder toll than I first thought.
I tried to focus simply on washing my hands, staring down at the basin. But when I looked up into the mirror, I realized to my horror that this scheming, venomous woman was just staring straight at me, waiting for me to turn and face her.
I met Marianne’s eye uncomfortably, feeling my heart begin to pound as that old familiar feeling of being in trouble washed over me once more.
She’s not your boss now, remember.
But despite this thought, I felt the cold dread prickling across my skin, and I sensed her palpable hatred of me, oozing from every pore.
“Listen to me, bitch,” she hissed, her voice low and trembling. “I know you stole the Matthews account. I’m not fucking stupid. But if you think for one God-damn second that Blake Matthews is interested in anything other than your tight little twenty-two-year-old pussy, then you’re even more of a stupid talentless whore than I first thought.”
The words struck home, harder than I could have ever imagined they would. First talentless then whore: a quick one-two to the stomach, knocking the air right out of me.
I opened my mouth to speak but no words came out. I shook my head, but deep down I knew that there was still a part of me that doubted Blake’s sincerity, a part of me that doubted that he hadn’t hired me for anything other than the chance to work his way between my legs.
I’m not proud of it. Looking back now, there are a thousand things I could’ve said to her in that moment. But instead I simply turned and ran like a coward, dashing out of the bathroom, leaving the faucet running and Marianne cackling, my hands dripping wet, my face flushed with heat.
“Everything okay? You look upset,” Blake said, as I sat back down.
“I’m fine,” I replied, bottom lip trembling.
“Let me guess: you ran into Marianne again.”
I nodded.
“And what did she say?”
“She said …” I began, hearing my own voice booming in my ears. “She said I was nothing but a talentless whore.” As I spoke, I felt a surprising rush of sadness spring up in me. My eyes flooded with tears and my throat tightened as I choked back the urge to sob. “I’m sorry, Blake,” I said, flustered, shaking my head. “This is really unprofessional of me. I … I … I think I’d better go …”
And before he could say a thing, I stood up and made a dash for the exit, past the surrounding tables of elderly diners, all of whom had clearly stopped their hushed conversations to watch me run out in tears, Blake’s calls to come back echoing in my ears as I raced up the stairs and out into the blinding white rush of daytime.
§
God damn it.
My head was still in such a mess, it took me until I was almost outside the door to the apartment, my key inches from the lock, before I realized that I’d walked automatically to our old apartment, rather than Fallon’s, a couple of blocks in the other direction.
You’re here now.
What’s the worst that can hap
pen?
Greg and I were both adults, after all. We weren’t right for each other and our relationship had ended. It happened all the time. But it didn’t mean that we couldn’t be friends. I still cared about him, had so much respect for him. I just hoped that he felt the same way about me ...
“Hello?” I called, taking a tentative step into the apartment.
I looked around sadly. He’d already packed most of my things into cardboard boxes. And some of his things seemed packed up too. He was obviously moving out. It made sense. This place would be way too much for him to afford on his own, on his tiny hourly wage. Again I felt my heart go out to him, wishing there was something I could do, some quick fix to make everything better, for both of us.
Life isn’t all roses, Jessica, I heard my mom say, another of her favorite old proverbs. I’d always shrugged and shook my head at that one in the past, but now I kind of understood what she meant.
Just then, I heard the door to the bathroom creak open, and out came Greg, his hair wet and shiny, his muscular torso dripping wet, just a flimsy threadbare towel tied loosely around his waist. And it was so strange. I felt my body yearning for him – to touch him, to kiss him, to feel him inside me one last time – because now I knew I never would.
“Oh, hey,” he said, surprised, a sad wounded tone to his voice. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Sorry,” I began, blushing, so taken aback by this odd new awkwardness between us. We’d known everything about each other, and now already it was like we were almost strangers. “I was just dropping by to collect a few of my things,” I explained, “but I can come back later if this isn’t a good time?”
“No, it’s fine,” he said. “Just let me get dressed.”
“Sure,” I replied, nervously, finding myself turning around to face the now-bare wall while he dropped his towel and sought out some clothes, even though I’d seen him naked a million times before.
And again, I felt myself yearning for him, in a way I hadn’t for so long.
“Okay, I’m decent,” he said shyly, and I turned around again to find him dressed in a pale blue cotton t-shirt and jeans. “I, uh, already made a start on packing up our things,” he continued, nodding down at the many boxes standing in two distinct piles in the center of the room.
Taming Blake (A New Adult Romance): The Complete Trilogy Page 11
