I don’t have enough time to call into Ethan’s office before I meet with Peterson, but I do stop by the bathroom and check myself in the mirror. Considering that I feel like dog shit, I don’t actually look that bad. A little tired maybe, like I had a late night, but nowhere near as bad as I feel. I straighten my tie, sigh without looking myself in the eye, and head off to the boardroom.
The whole office is decked out for Christmas, which is barely two weeks away now, and the cheerful, celebratory mood feels grotesque to me.
Peterson is already in the boardroom, sitting next to his PA. He’s taken the seat at the head of the huge, solid oak table, just like he always does. Ben’s laptop is open on the table a few seats down and Ben himself is on his feet, pouring coffees.
“Oh, the wanderer returns,” says Peterson as I enter, smirking in the most punchable way I’ve ever seen.
My lips twitch in response, but no smile appears on my face.
“What do you want, Lincoln?” I ask, sitting down.
It’s not my usual style. I’m the one that gets sent into situations like this, when an awkward client is on the warpath, specifically because I’m good at schmoozing them. But not today.
The clinking of Ben’s spoon against the side of his cup abruptly stops, and he comes over to sit beside me. I get the distinct impression that he thinks I need a minder.
I’m already furious at Lincoln. I fucked everything up with Allie and broke a promise to the sweetest little girl in the world, and then he had the temerity to cancel on me. Screw this guy.
“Well that’s no way to talk to your biggest client,” he says, bristling.
I stare at him silently, and out of the corner of my eye, I see his PA exchange a wary glance with Ben.
“Uh,” says Ben, turning his laptop around to me. “Here’s the account.”
“I’ve seen it,” I say, still staring directly at Peterson.
Maybe I’m not even angry at him. Maybe I’m angry at myself for giving in to the whims of this obnoxious asshole. Maybe I’m seething, churning on the inside because of my own, unforgivable assholery. Because I proved myself right. Because I hurt people. Again. Because I never told Allie exactly how I felt and that I would crawl over broken glass if it meant we could be together.
Because I’m a coward. A coward who runs away and hurts people.
“Well then, you know it’s underperforming,” says Peterson, with an indignant sniff.
I feel my jaw clench. I feel the joints on either side of it poke out under my cheeks. And I know Peterson sees it too because there’s a flash of uncertainty across his detestable face.
I take in a long, deep breath through my nose, and breathe it out slowly. I’m usually an ocean of calm, but I am really struggling to keep my temper in check today. Taking Ben’s laptop, I pull up some screenshots of the latest ad campaign for Peterson’s company, and turn the screen around to face him.
“What do you see here, Lincoln?” I ask.
“My ad account,” he says, frowning.
“No, no,” I say, sharply. “What exactly do you see?”
Ben clears his throat beside me, but I ignore him.
“Get to the point, Blair,” says Peterson, cocking up his nose. He’s trying to look affronted but I can tell I have him on the back foot. And much to my surprise, I like the way it makes me feel. It gives my anger an outward target, and the brief respite from hating myself makes the rage almost cathartic.
“The point, Peterson,” I say, all but spitting his last name. He flinches, and I press on, like a tiger stalking down my prey. “What you’re looking at here is bad ad copy. And I don’t just mean bad, I mean it’s absolute dog shit.”
His PA’s eyes go wide as saucers, and Peterson sputters.
“Now listen here, I pay goo—”
“No, you listen!” I say, not realizing I’ve shouted it from my feet until Peterson stands up as well, a split second too slow to hide his shock. “You insisted on this ad copy. We told you. Cecie told you, Ethan told you, I told you. Fuck, I even tried to get Ben to tell your PA,” I say. “This is what you pay us for. But no. You had to have this pile of unmitigated shit.”
“Boss…” says Ben, quietly.
I ignore him, feeling myself swell with unspent wrath.
“And why? Because Lincoln Fucking Peterson is a narcissistic asshole who thinks he knows better than everyone else, that’s why.”
It feels good. I wish it didn’t, but shouting in the face of this insufferable shit is the best I’ve felt since Sunrise Valley.
“Boss!” hisses Ben.
“Outrageous!” Peterson shouts. “I won’t be talked to like this by… by some jumped up little prick who couldn’t be bothered to answer calls. Be—” he hesitates. But he’s started now, so he has to finish. “Because he was getting his dick wet with some whore in bumfuck nowhere!”
Ethan must have told him, while he was making excuses for me. A smug little smirk lifts onto Peterson’s face. But only for a fraction of a second.
Because the fraction of a second after that, he’s up against the boardroom wall, my knuckles white as they grip his expensively tailored lapels, and my face is barely an inch away from his.
“Say it again!” I snarl. A fleck of my spit lands on the end of his nose, but he’s too petrified to even react. “Say it again, you vile little shit!”
Ben is trying to tear me off him with no success. I pull my fist back, savoring the thought of how it’s going to feel to finally give this prick the beating he so richly deserves... and then something suddenly clamps tightly around my arm, and I’m being dragged backward, away from Peterson and out of the boardroom. Peterson slides down the wall, his jacket and tie askew and a look of sheer terror on his face.
“Greyson!” shouts Ethan, right beside my ear. I realize it’s his hand on my arm. “Stop!”
I look at him, my eyes wild, and then back into the boardroom where Peterson is being helped to his feet by Ben and his PA. He’s staring at me through the glass and, though I can’t hear him, it’s pretty clear that he’s directing a stream of obscenities at me.
I’m not done. I want to lay into him with my fists and my feet and spend every ounce of my madness on him. I try to yank my arm free of Ethan’s grip, to get back on the other side of that glass and finish what I started.
And then I feel an almighty crack on my jaw, and I stumble backward until I hit up against the wall.
With my hand on my face, I look at Ethan and realize he’s socked me in the jaw. He’s still standing there, arm cocked, looking ready to hit me again if I need it. But the shock has caused my anger to subside a little, and in any case, I’m distracted by the sudden throb that explodes across my head. I open my mouth wide and dig the heel of my palm into the spot where he punched me, trying to rub the pain away.
“Get back to work!” Ethan barks. I belatedly notice that a gaggle of employees have gathered to watch the scene, and are staring at me like I’m a madman. The tone of Ethan’s command is so out of character that they scatter within seconds.
“You need to go home,” he says, looking back at me with abject disappointment. “And let me try to fix this fucking mess.”
“I…” I begin, but he cuts me off with a glare.
“LEAVE.”
His tone makes it clear that this is not a discussion. Still holding my jaw, my head low as I try to avoid being seen, I stalk out of the office and leave Ethan to pick up the shattered remains of our company.
Chapter 23
Allie
My name is Alora Brooks and I am completely fine.
This is my mantra, and I’ve been playing it on repeat in my head ever since Greyson left, almost a week ago. Today, I even believed it enough to venture out of town to pick up the girls’ Christmas gifts, while they stay with their aunt Sadie and make Christmas cookies.
Or maybe it was out of necessity. I’ve gotten hardly any of the Christmas prep done, having spent the last week moping, and the month
before that frolicking about like a teenager with Greyson. And fixing up the mansion. And working in the diner.
So now I’m driving home in the dim light of the setting sun, with the girls’ presents already wrapped and packed away in the trunk. I must still be pretty distracted, though, because I don’t even realize I’m on Old Green Road until Sunrise Valley House comes into view. My heart flips over in my chest at the surprise of seeing the old place, and then lands with a thud when I realize that the house has been painted a dull grey color. I can see a little sign as I get closer, and my heart rate picks up. When I’m close enough to see the big, red letters spelling out FOR SALE, I know I’m done for.
I barely get halfway to town before I have to pull over on the side of the lonely road. The tears have started again, and my vision is too obscured for me to drive safely. And my legs suddenly feel like jelly—I’m not sure I could brake in a hurry if I needed to.
All I can see is Greyson’s smiling face as we argued about the best color to paint the mansion. And then my mind, treacherous as it is, is flooded with memories of all the good times. Kissing him in the puddle, snowball fights, Christmas fairs, and lazing in bed, limbs entangled.
And now he’s gone, and the house is going to be sold.
He’s never coming back.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel and I squeeze until my knuckles whiten. And then I scream. As loud as I can. I scream until my throat hurts and my face is red and my breath runs out.
And then the car door suddenly opens, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I look up, and through the haze of tears, I see Sam’s concerned face looking down at me. He looks almost ready to cry himself. I must be a mess.
“Oh, Allie,” he says, crouching down to reach in and hug me. He holds me tight and doesn’t let go, and my entire body is wracked with sobs that have been unspent for a week because I’ve had to hold it together for the girls.
“Come on,” he says when my sobs have subsided and I’m left with a blotchy face and some juddering sniffles. “We’ll pick your car up later. Come with me.”
I let him pull me out of the car and walk with him to his truck. As we climb in, he looks over at me and offers a gentle smile.
“We’re gonna take care of you, sweetie. You’ll see.”
“Allie’s here!” he calls as we step through the door.
Drew pokes his head out from the kitchen, smiling.
“Great,” he says. “I’ll put on some extra pasta. Do you like carbonara, Allie?”
He takes one look at me and his smile drops. He disappears for a moment back into the kitchen, and when he reappears he’s holding a bottle of wine and two glasses. I break into a chuckle for the first time in I don’t know how long. It feels good.
“Don’t let ‘em get you down, sweetheart,” winks Drew. “Dinner will be about twenty. And then you two can get sloshed and I’ll be your babysitter.”
“Thanks, Drew,” I say, heading through into the living room with Sam.
Once I’m settled on the sofa, glass in hand, Sam disappears into the kitchen for a few minutes. He comes back to tell me that Sadie is keeping the kids tonight, Eddie has collected my car already, and that I’m staying here with him and Drew.
“No arguments, no protests, this is the judge’s final decision!” he grins.
The meal is delicious, the wine flows freely, and the conversation is easy and light, the way it always is between old friends. It feels wonderful to let my hair down a little, to enjoy myself without having to keep up a front for the people who depend on me. And Sam and Drew both intuitively avoid mentioning Greyson for as long as I do.
Which is roughly until I’m halfway through my third glass of wine.
“You know,” I say, my speech just a little slurred. “What an absolute shit.”
“Absolutely!” says Sam, lifting his wine glass in a slightly drunken toast. Drew nods, sipping on the same beer he started during dinner.
“I mean, what a complete bastard,” I say.
“Completely!” says Sam.
“Grey. Imagine painting it grey!” I snort.
“The house?” asks Drew.
“The house,” says Sam.
“I miss him,” I say, my face crumpling.
Sam seems to spring into action immediately, like he’s been waiting for this moment all night. He scoots across the couch and puts his arm around me, giving my shoulders a squeeze.
“I let him so close to the girls,” I sniff. “I was so stupid.”
“No you weren’t,” says Sam. “You weren’t. He seemed nice. You couldn’t have known.”
“I need to contact him,” I say miserably. “I need him to send me an invoice to close the contract on HelpForHire. But I really don’t want to do it.”
“Email?” asks Sam.
I nod, sniffing again.
“Give me your phone,” says Sam. “I’ll do it.”
I don’t even hesitate, despite the fact that Sam is on his fourth glass of wine. The prospect of not having to spend an hour agonizing over every word I send him is too good to pass up. So I log into HelpForHire on my phone and hand it right over to Sam.
“So what did you get for the girls?” asks Drew, and I smile as I wipe my eyes, glad to change the subject back to happier things. I tell Drew all about Lottie and Emma’s gifts, while Sam’s thumbs patter furiously across my phone.
I don’t even check what Sam’s written when he hands my phone back, because Drew is regaling me with the story of how Jimmy Junior tried to impress some girl at the Christmas Fair by playing Pin the Tail on the Turkey with his legs tied together and fell flat on his ass.
Chapter 24
Greyson
BANG BANG BANG!
I peel one eye open at the sound of a loud hammering on my apartment door, and for a second I feel like I’m back in Sunrise Valley House, with the plumbers stomping around as they pull the upstairs bathroom apart. Christ, will I ever escape the sound of banging first thing in the morning?
I glance over at my blackout curtains. A narrow beam of light is infiltrating my room between them, bright enough to tell me it’s daytime. Groaning, I reach over from the couch and slap my hand about until I find my phone on the coffee table. Shit, it’s 1:24 pm.
Ignoring the three-digit bubble notifications on all my messaging and email apps, I drop the phone back onto the table and close my eyes again.
My head is throbbing. I’ve had this low-level stress headache since the day of the girls’ concerts back in Sunrise Valley, but I haven’t taken anything for it. Partly because it’s a distraction from thinking about Allie. From remembering the smell of her hair and the sparkle of her eyes and wishing I was back there with her. And partly because I feel like I deserve the pain after all the shit I’ve caused for everyone.
There’s another loud bang on the door. Rolling onto my side, I grab a cushion and hold it against the side of my head to drown out the noise. And then, I hear a muffled voice coming through the door.
“If you don’t open it, I’m going to break it down!”
Ethan.
“Fucksake,” I grumble, throwing the cushion across the darkened room. I get up from the couch—too fast, as it turns out—and almost keel over as the blood rushes to my head. It’s little wonder; I sat on that couch all day yesterday and fell asleep on it in the early hours of the morning. This is the first time I’ve stood up in a while.
“Last chance!” I hear Ethan calling through the door.
“I’m coming!” I grumble. I take a moment to steady myself on my feet, then I walk over to the door and pull it open.
Ethan is standing there in his suit. He must have come from the office.
“What do you want?” I demand, irritably.
I haven’t seen him since the Peterson incident, and the look on his face tells me that the “sabbatical” I’ve been taking hasn’t done me any good.
“You look like shit,” he says, pushing past me. He marches right across the room to
the curtains and flings them open.
“Jesus Christ,” I exclaim, squinting in the sudden brightness. I close the door and wait for my eyes to adjust, as Ethan takes in his surroundings.
Now that I look at it, it’s a bit of a mess. There are half-empty takeout cartons and water bottles all over the place, dirty clothes on the floor, and the couch has a literal outline of my body pressed into it. Ethan turns around slowly, surveying the scene until he’s finally facing me again. His face is a mixture of disgust and pity.
“What are you doing?” he says, exasperated.
“What do you mean?”
“Look at this place,” he says, gesturing around. “And look at yourself.”
I turn to the full-length mirror beside me and stare. My hair is holding the imprint of the cushion on one side, probably because I haven’t showered in a few days, and there are big, dark bags under my eyes. The swelling has gone down on my jaw, at least, but he’s not wrong. I look like shit.
“I’m depressed,” I say to my reflection.
“You’re not depressed,” Ethan says. “Depressed people can’t do anything about being depressed. You can fix everything wrong with your life with a single plane ticket.”
I stare at him like he’s crazy.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Go back to Sunrise Valley, you dipshit,” he says. He sounds almost angry that he has to spell it out for me like this.
A bitter laugh escapes my lips. “No.”
“There’s no reason for you to be in the city. You can work remotely for most of the stuff you do. And if you do need to attend a meeting in person, it’s an hour’s flight.”
“No.”
“You love her,” he says.
“Doesn’t matter.” I say it almost defiantly.
Ethan sighs, then grimaces with disgust as he picks up a half-empty pizza box and carries it into the kitchen.
My Smalltown C.E.O. Scrooge: A Festive Romantic Comedy Page 16
