Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Except…me.
I’m the only one I can trust, and at some point I have to trust actions, rather than feelings. Deeds rather than words.
Fact is, Everly’s been putting this off time and time again.
She said let’s get through this makeover and we’ll figure it out. She said let’s not do anything tonight. She said a partnership with Date Night could ruin all the work we’ve done.
What if I leave tomorrow and she gets that promotion, and then I return and she dumps me on my ass?
“So, we really should get things going with Date Night,” Clementine adds. “Perhaps tomorrow?”
She looks to me hopefully, and I steal a look at Everly. Her face is unreadable now. Her eyes give nothing away. They’re just…hard.
But I’m good at memorizing. And I remember all too clearly something she said last week. “Max, let’s get through the next event, but once we do, I could try to talk to my boss.”
Could. She only said she could try. I am such a fool. I push back in the chair. “Excuse me,” I say, then I step away from the table, but instead of heading to the restroom, I beeline to the front door, a man on a mission. Once outside, I draw a huge breath.
This is how I feel when an opponent slams into me. When the wind’s knocked out. When the world has turned upside down.
A minute later, Garrett’s pushing open the door, joining me in the cool late November night. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Just needed some air.”
“You okay?”
“Yes,” I say.
“You don’t need to make this decision tonight,” he says. “Actually, maybe don’t make it tonight.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I’m fine,” I snap.
Garrett holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay.”
“Are you trying to help Everly get a promotion?” I ask like it’s a crime.
He tilts his head, studying me quizzically. “It’d be nice if she got one. She works hard. She’s good at her job. Maybe fix your shit and act the same way,” he says, for once not playing the smooth, cool agent role, but instead the kick-a-client-in-the-pants one.
He stares me down, hands on hips. Waiting. He’s not leaving me out here alone because he doesn’t trust me. And really, maybe I don’t deserve trust with the way my brain has turned black and dark. I heave a sigh then say, “Fine. Let’s go back inside.”
He sets a hand on my shoulder. “Shake this mood, man. It’s not good.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to ruin anyone’s project.”
Then I shrug him off and go back inside, slapping on a false smile for the rest of the meal.
47
THE GREAT UN-SPIRALING
Max
The second we’re in my car, she slams the door, then looks at me with both concern and accusation in her eyes. “What is going on with you?”
Like she doesn’t know. I fling the question right back at her. “What’s going on with you?”
She yanks the seatbelt on, then crosses her arms. “Why would you ask me that question about Date Night? Is there anything that would hold me back?” She mimics me, but her voice is laced with hurt.
So is my whole body.
“Because I needed to know.” I stab the on button and hit the gas. But as I cruise through traffic, I can’t escape the weight of her stare.
“What is going on, Max?” she asks again, pressing me, with genuine concern in her voice.
Fuck, what is wrong with me?
I grit my teeth and try to fight off the hurt. I truly do. But when we’re close to her house, I’m too caught up in this swirl of doubt. It’s like chains wrapped around me. “Are you moving on?”
She narrows her brow. Studies me like I make no sense. “What are you talking about?”
“Moving on. You said that at dinner,” I bite out.
“Garrett said that,” she corrects me, a little incredulous. Actually, a lot incredulous.
I take a deep breath. “He said, and I quote, And now you can finally move on to other things.”
“Those were his words!”
“You didn’t deny them.”
“It’s not my job to deny something your agent says,” she says, her voice rising as I pull up to her home, parking at the curb with an unnecessary squeal of tires.
“He seemed awfully fixated on your promotion. The entire dinner seemed to be about the project,” I say, building up a new head of steam.
She holds her hands out wide. “News flash: It was about the project. That’s literally why Zaire asked us to dinner. We just worked on a project together.” She takes a beat and draws a deep breath, then pins me with a sharp stare. “So what are you getting at, Max?”
I shouldn’t say it. I really shouldn’t. But it’s weighing on me. It’s gnawing at me. It’s eating away at me. Because I know what it’s like to be burned and to be burned publicly. Before I can think the better of it, the words tumble out, “Did you just use me for the promotion?”