I blame myself. I should have flown the nest a long time ago, but I really loved my job.
The cab merges into the right lane, slowing to a crawl outside a familiar brick building. The Hightower.
My lips fight a smile when I think of last Saturday night with Keir.
Best. Night. Ever.
I’d never had such uninhibited sex. For the first time in forever, my mind, body, and soul were completely free. Sex for the fun of it is so much better than sex with a man who’s probably going to break your heart by the time he’s done with it.
“Ma’am, we’re here.” The driver flicks his hazard lights on and pulls up to the curb. I swipe my card and climb out from the back, straightening the hem of my pencil skirt before striding toward a five-story building with a limestone façade.
I stop at the reception desk to check in before taking a seat in the lobby, mentally practicing my spiel.
I graduated summa cum laude from Wellesley with a degree in Nonprofit Management. Upon graduating, I began working as the vice president of event coordination at Aldridge Corporation. In my spare time, I volunteer at Paws and Claws, Feed the Needy, and Water 4 All. I spent a summer abroad my junior year of college, taking classes on international not-for-profit strategies. My personal hobbies include reading, traveling, and … drinking Pumpkin Spice Lattes like my life depends on it.
Drawing in a deep breath, I let it go, convinced I’m the most boring, basic girl who ever lived.
God, I’d make the perfect First Lady. There’s not a single blemish on my record. Not a single hint that might imply I’ve ever colored outside the lines.
Laughing to myself, I shake my head when I realize the most scandalous thing I’ve ever done is wear a sexy dress to a bar and sleep with a few sexy strangers.
Big whoop.
Hopefully once I get out of Aldridge Corp—and DC—I can finally start living a little.
“Something funny?” A man’s voice breaks my daydream, and I glance up to see a tall drink of water with sandy blond hair tucked behind his ears standing before me. His mouth lifts at one side as he takes me in, his green eyes flashing. “If it’s an inside joke, you’ll have to let me in. I hate being an outsider.”
Shaking my head, I realize he’s wearing a suit and holding a copy of my resume.
“You must be Mr. Calloway?” I stand, extending my hand. It feels odd calling him ‘Mr. Calloway’ when he appears to be not much older than me, but we’re obviously not on a first name basis quite yet.
“And you must be my eight AM.” His grip is firm, his eyes holding mine. “We’ll head back to my office.”
He turns and I follow, the click-click of my heels echoing against the glossy white tile.
I knew I should’ve worn flats.
“So do you have this whole building?” I ask as we walk.
Spencer—Mr. Calloway—glances down at me, chuckling. “No, Rowan. We use about three offices here. I don’t even have an assistant. The receptionist is just a … building perk. She works for all of us.”
“Oh, okay. I tried to familiarize myself with your company, but I couldn’t find much online.” The moment the words leave my lips, my cheeks flush. Is this an appropriate thing to say at a job interview? I basically just admitted to online stalking his business.
Mr. Calloway grabs the door to his office, ushering me in first. “Have a seat there, Rowan.”
A moment later, he moves to the other side of his desk, across from me, smoothing his tie before taking a seat. His eyes never leave mine. Not once.
This man is intense, which piques my curiosity.
His hair is tousled, air-dried almost, but his suit is crisp and pressed and his shoes are expensive. His mouth smiles, and his stare holds me prisoner.
“We’re a start-up consulting agency,” he says. “What we do is we travel all around the country—sometimes the world even—and we help not-for-profits get off the ground.”
That much I knew already. He has a website with a brief “About Me” page. All the other pages said “UNDER CONSTRUCTION. CHECK BACK SOON.”
“So tell me about yourself, Rowan Aldridge.” He says my full name as his eyes fall to my resume. “Says you have a degree in Nonprofit Management from Wellesley. Impressive. What made you choose that path?”
Sitting up straight, I overthink the placement of my hands and almost miss his question. “My family is really into philanthropy, and I grew up spending most weekends and summers volunteering everywhere I could. When it came time to choose a major, my parents had only one requirement: choose something that’s going to make the world a better place.”
Mr. Calloway’ brows are furrowed as he lets my words sink in, and then he leans back in his chair, expression softening. “Wow. That’s probably the best answer I’ve had so far.”
Exhaling, I smile.
“So many people pick their college degrees based on how much money they want to make or some subject that kind of, sort of interests them. To pick a degree because you want to help others … that says something about your character. I like that.” He’s quiet now, nodding to himself as he pores over my resume again. A moment later, his eyes flick up. “Are you comfortable traveling?”
“Love traveling.”
“You might be staying in certain areas for months at a time,” he says. “You’ll be living out of a suitcase. You’re fine with not planting roots?”
I decide not to tell him I’m a freshly plucked daisy. “I’m absolutely fine with that. I need a change of scenery.”
“I believe you, Rowan,” he says, head cocked. “But I want you to really think about how it’s going to be. You might get lonely. It’s hard making new friends in new cities when you’re only going to be there a short while. All your family will be back home … wherever they are … and you’ll be missing out.”
“I can handle it.” I smile. “There’s always FaceTime.”
He doesn’t seem amused. “It’s not the same. Take it from someone who learned the hard way.”
Mr. Calloway’ eyes move toward a photo on his desk. I can’t see it, but from the tenderness in his eyes, I imagine it’s a small child. Maybe he’s divorced? A single father?
Clearing his throat, he redirects his attention back to me, firing question after question, testing my knowledge and analyzing my responses in real time. My answers are clear, my posture straight, and my eye contact unwavering.
When we’re finished, he walks me to the lobby and shakes my hand again, this time a little longer than before.
“I hope to make my decision in the next few weeks,” he says. “If you get another job offer in the meantime, let me know.”
I fight the excited grin threatening to make me look like a dopey lunatic, and I nod. “Will do. It was lovely meeting you, Mr. Calloway.”
“Spencer,” he says. And now we’re on a first-name basis. “I’ll be in touch.”
Hitting the sidewalk a few seconds later, my entire being is flooded with hope, like someone opened the top of my head and filled me full of glitter. It’s the only way I can describe it. Every part of me feels alive.
It’s like the world is finally at my fingertips when it was always barely out of reach before.
Walking south, I pass The Hightower and squeeze through a gathered crowd with outstretched phones, chattering to one another. To the right, Keir’s SUV is parked and his agents are clearing the walkway.
I can’t imagine what it would be like creating a spectacle of my every coming-and-going.
Turning to the side, I slip between two women yelling Keir’s name. He glances in their direction, only for a moment, but his eyes land on me.
We hold one another’s gazes for a single, endless second …
And then I disappear into the crowd.
I meant what I said.
One and done.
Chapter Fourteen
Keir
“She just kept walking …” I’m pacing my living room, seconds from shoving the gl
ass coffee table out of the fucking way.
“Calm down,” Connor says.
“Didn’t even stop.” I drag my hand through my hair, hating that Connor was there to witness what just happened downstairs.
“You’re not used to women not throwing themselves at you,” he says. “Get over it. We have a job to do. Take your ego out of the equation and just … make it happen.”
Moving toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, I glance at the sidewalk several stories below. “I could walk outside, choose any one of those women, and—”
“Jesus, Keir. Why are you getting so bent out of shape? You don’t even like this girl.” Connor sinks back in my favorite chair, his hands behind his head. “Need I remind you none of this is real? Ergo, she’s not rejecting you—she’s rejecting the guy you’re pretending to be.”
“I fucked her. That was real.” I return to pacing. The fact that I owned her body from sun down to sun up Saturday night and she walks down my street acting like we’re total strangers.
No.
I don’t accept that.
“You should’ve seen the way she looked at me,” I say, turning toward him. “That morning … when I left … she had this look, like she …”
I let my thoughts trail. Overanalyzing things—especially related to women—has always been a colossal waste of time, and I’m not about to start wasting my time on some piece of tits and ass that won’t even give me the time of day.
“Let’s get back on track here.” Connor forms a point with his index fingers before shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Why don’t you give it one last try.”
“You’re a fucking mad man.”
“Hear me out,” he says. “Just … call her. Ask her out. Say you want to see her again. You never know. Maybe she’ll change her mind if you show a little more interest?”
“What the hell do you think I’ve been doing this entire time?”
Connor exhales through his nose, his lips pressed flat. “Shit, Keir. I mean, there’s always the chance that she’s just not over Hunter Harrington. Maybe she meant what she said … she just wanted one night with you. Maybe that was her way of getting over him?”
“You have sisters, don’t you?” I ask.
His brows scrunch. “What do my sisters have to do with this?”
“Because you sound like a fucking woman right now.” I spit my words at him. “I couldn’t care less if she’s not over Hunter or why she did what she did. I just …”
“You just want her to want you.” Connor glances away.
And he’s right.
I just want her to want me.
Just wish I knew why.
Chapter Fifteen
Rowan
Doing laundry naked is one of my favorite pastimes.
Too bad I can’t bring that up at job interviews …
My curtains are drawn tight, my TV is blaring the latest Real Housewives franchise, and three heaping piles of cotton-smelling clothes are calling for me.
The whole naked laundry thing started fresh out of college, when I was finally able to have my own place. Growing up in a large family, there’s basically zero privacy. Going from that to a dorm with communal bathrooms is even worse.
But now, living on my own, I’ve basically turned my apartment into my own private nudist sanctuary, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Fluffing a white towel, I fold it in half, then in half once more, before rewinding my show to see if the blonde Botoxed housewife really just said what I thought she said, only my phone starts ringing the second I try to hear it again.
Pausing the TV, I see my mom’s name flash across my phone screen and debate letting it go to voicemail. But my mom never calls unless someone dies or she needs something immediately, so I figure I better answer.
“Hi, darling,” she says, her voice sugary sweet. She must be with people. “I was just having dinner with a few ladies I met doing my Dallas TED talk. One of them runs a not-for-profit business that sends care packages to overseas soldiers, so it made me think of you and that summer you sent over a hundred packages.”
There’s a smile in her voice. I only wish I knew if it were genuine, if she truly were proud of me or if she’s trying to look good in front of her new friends.
My mom is a skilled professional at the whole humble brag thing.
She practically invented it.
The phone gets muffled for a moment, and I hear what sounds like my mom saying goodbye to a few people.
“Anyway,” she comes back, her tone less jovial. “I know your last day in the office has come and gone, and I’m sorry I missed your goodbye party, but I was wondering if you could come back just for a week or two and help me fill your position?”
My jaw hangs.
“You told me you were promoting Lexi into my position,” I say.
I know what this is. She’s going to ask me to come back to do one thing and it’s going to turn into fifty million other things and I’ll be back to running the show while she tours the world raking in tax write offs every step of the way.
“I don’t know, Mom …” I try to think on my feet, but she truly caught me off guard.
“What, did you find another job already?”
“I have some prospects.”
“Okay, but you’re not working.”
“Not yet,” I say.
She exhales into the phone. “Then come back to the office. We’ll give you a nice per diem rate and you can get things back in order. I swear that place fell apart as soon as you left. Still don’t understand why you quit. We were so good to you, Row.”
“Mom.” I sit the phone down for two seconds, desperate for some kind of distance or reprieve from the sound of her voice. Lifting it to my ear, I say, “Where’s Lexi? I trained her before I left.”
“We fired her, Row,” Mom says like it’s nothing.
“What? When? Why?” I take a seat, my naked ass brushing against my pristine cream sofa, but I don’t care. “So all that time I spent training her was for nothing?”
“She kept showing up late,” Mom says.
“How would you know? You and Dad are always on the road.”
“Well that’s what everyone was saying. Supposedly she got her promotion and got a big head about her and started acting different and—”
“You know she’s a Harvard-educated woman,” I say. “And a single mom.”
“Your point, Rowan?” Her tone is snide.
“You couldn’t have talked to her about her behavior?” I ask. “And what if your source was just some jealous co-worker who had it in for her?”
“I don’t need you to tell me how to run my business, thankyouverymuch.” My mom’s Southern drawl is thicker than ever, as it tends to be when she’s throwing a little fit.
I begin to respond when another call comes through. Glancing at the screen, my heart falls to my feet when I see Keir’s number.
He promised he wouldn’t call.
But right now, talking to him holds more appeal than continuing this conversation with my mother.
“Mom, I have another call coming in,” I cut her off. “It’s a weird number … might be one of those jobs I interviewed for …” She tries to talk over me. Repeatedly. “Mom, I’ll call you later.”
She tries to ask me one last time if I’ll come back, but I hang up.
And subsequently hang up on Keir in the process.
Whoops.
My heart races a little faster than it should when I think about calling him back, and I clutch the phone against my chest as I weigh my options.
Calling him back might make him think I want to date him. And I don’t.
But if I don’t call him back, I’m going to spend the rest of the night wondering what he wanted.
Exhaling, I fold a few more towels, all the while eyeing my phone.
I give it a good twenty minutes and finish the rest of my show before finally giving in.
“Why don’t you like me?”
he answers on the second ring, his voice slow and drawn out.
“You’re drunk. On a Monday night,” I say. “Keep it classy, Keir.”
“I realize I sound like a desperate tool, but I have to know.” He ignores my comment.
“You promised you wouldn’t contact me again,” I say. “Promised.”
“You saw me today. I know you did. And you looked away and kept walking.” There’s a darker, angrier quality to his words.
“There was a crowd,” I say. “And I was headed somewhere.”
“Where?” He calls my bluff.
“Job interview,” I lie.
He’s quiet for a second. “Okay, so just answer my fucking question so I can get on with the rest of my life. Why don’t you like me?”
Draping a throw blanket over my naked body, I sink into my sofa pillows and gaze up at the ceiling, trying not to laugh. He’s clearly hammered, and I bet sober Keir would have a conniption if he knew drunk Keir was doing this.
“Because you’re you … and I’m me,” I finally say.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re good for a fun time,” I say. “And that’s all I wanted. Objective fulfilled. Thank you for your service.”
He breathes into the phone.
“I’m not going to apologize for feeling the way I do especially, when I made it completely clear to you from the moment we met that I only wanted one night,” I say.
“Jesus, it’s like you took a page out of my book.” His words are low, muttered under his breath.
“But I thought you were a changed man?” I bite back a smile. I knew he was full of shit. Men like him don’t change. Not for anyone or anything. They’re mustangs and everyone knows you can’t tame wild horses—not completely.
“I am a changed man,” he says, slurring. “But you wouldn’t know that since you refuse to give me the time of day.”
P.S. I Hate You Page 51
