Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 98112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98112 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Rage skyrockets. It’s all I can do not to throw her phone across the room. Sadly, that won’t do any good. Neither will hunting down this bastard and beating the hell out of him. But it sure would make me feel better.
From my nightstand, my phone rings. It’s Bethany again. If I ignore her, I can kiss any remote chance of this partnership coming to fruition goodbye.
Since Corinne is still in the bathroom, I lunge for the phone just as Riley sends her another text. It’s another mention from the gossip mongering press.
Parker Emerson’s Sister Turns Slut for Nemesis.
Fuck, is that how they’re spinning this? Not that we’re a loving couple who want to get married, despite her brother’s objection. Instead of being a modern-day Romeo and Juliet, the press has shamed and blamed her for expressing her passion for her “fiancé.” I’m just a footnote in the incident, only noteworthy because I’m Barclay Reed’s bastard offspring and Parker’s enemy—and I got her off in public.
No wonder she’s horrified.
To the backdrop of my still-jangling cell, I scroll up the message string and find similar damning headlines. A few excoriate me, sure. But those that aim their vitriol at Corinne are demeaning, vicious, and beyond any public censure I foresaw. Beyond anything aimed at me. Talk about a double standard.
I close my eyes as a thousand-pound boulder of guilt sinks to my gut. Her phone slips from my hand and falls to the bed.
What the fuck have I done?
A moment later, she emerges from the bathroom, eyes haunted and red-rimmed. Since I’m wearing nothing but a towel around my waist, she’ll hardly look at me.
“Don’t you need to answer that?” She glances toward my phone, but it’s a distraction from what’s happening.
I’ve crossed too many lines, said and done too much. No apology is going to fix that.
“That’s it? You’re leaving?” I won’t beg again. Her expression tells me it won’t do any good.
But the thought of her walking out, of never holding her again, hurts more than I imagined. More than almost anything I’ve ever felt.
Still, she’s trying to protect herself, her future. I can’t be a selfish shit and stop her when I’ve done so much damage.
“It’s for the best.” A tear slides down her cheek.
It nearly destroys me. “How do we spin this? How do we explain our breakup?”
She shakes her head, eyes closing. “I can’t think about that right now. Talk to Bethany, come up with a story. It’s okay if you need to throw me under the bus. I understand.” Her smile turns cynical. “Since Parker has done that to you already, it’s my turn.”
I grip her shoulders. “I would never do that to you. Ever.”
“You should.” She backs away, out of my reach. “I’m incredibly sorry. For everything.”
Then she scoops up her phone and her suitcase and heads to the front door. Nothing I can think to say will undo the damage I’ve caused. I can’t keep dragging her through my mud and hurting her. Even though it goes against my instinct not to fight, I let her go—and take my goddamn heart with her.
The night feels like the longest of my life. I can’t stand to even be inside the house, much less sleep in my bed. In fact, my place, where I’ve never brought women in the past, is now a never-ending reminder of Corinne and the fact she’s gone.
Since I have no reason to go to the office—another call with a tearfully regretful Bethany made that clear—I camp out through the wee hours of the morning on an oversized chaise lounge on my lanai and stare at the starry black sky.
I hate feeling impotent. At heart, I’m a doer. I make things happen. I strategize. I hustle. But there’s nothing I can do now. Any action I take, whether that’s punching back at Riley or confronting Parker, will only deflect onto Corinne. She’s endured enough without me heaping more on her.
When the sun finally rises in a burst of vivid yellows, oranges, and pinks, I schlep to the kitchen for coffee. My gaze snags on the mug Corinne used each morning. And I can’t look at my sink without remembering her washing dishes, bopping to Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky”—a hysterically appropriate song considering we fucked all night. If I close my eyes, I can still see her there, sunlight streaming onto her dark hair, illuminating the reds embedded in the rich, dark strands, bouncing as she scrubbed plates and sang under her breath.
Now she’s like a ghost haunting my kitchen.
Fuck the coffee.
Stifling an exhausted sigh, I yank my phone from my pocket. Maybe I should text Corinne. Check on her. No, that’s too impersonal. Maybe I should call instead. At six thirty in the morning? What are the odds she’ll answer?
What if she’s finally decided to get busy with Riley to prove I’m wrong about her feelings?