Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81170 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
“Neither,” she says, her voice somber and heavy. “He just saw me.”
“Smile,” I say because I can’t hear a hint of it in her tone. I picture her face—pale and shell shocked. It’s as if a catastrophic train wreck is about to happen and there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop it. “Smile and wave.”
“I am,” she says through what sound like clenched teeth. “Oh my god, Sloane, he’s walking over here right now with Theodora. I have to go.”
The line goes dead.
And I make a move for the nearest garbage can because I’m almost certain I’m going to throw up.
CHAPTER THIRTY
ROMAN
“So lovely of you to stop by today,” Theodora says as she ushers me out of her office. “Little things like this make for the best surprises. How I wish you’d come by more often . . .” Brushing her hand against my arm, she chuckles. “Though I won’t flatter myself. You and I both know the real reason you’re here.”
She points across the room, toward a door with a sign that clearly reads MARGAUX SHERIDAN, CLIENT RELATIONS DIRECTOR.
Twenty feet away, past a double set of shiny black reception desks and a small waiting area adorned with various plants and framed accolades, Margaux stands on the other side of a glass window, her silhouette partly obscured by miniblinds as she stares at me with a half-gaped mouth.
I had a break in my schedule today, so I thought I’d swing by and take her out to lunch as a surprise. I even called her assistant earlier to confirm her calendar was open, and I made her promise to keep this a surprise.
Margaux doesn’t smile when she sees me—at least not at first.
Lifting her hand, albeit in slow motion, she offers a gentle finger wave as her full lips pull into a confused arch.
“Hi,” I say when I reach her door.
“H-hi,” she says, eyes squinting. There’s something different about her, though I can’t put my finger on it. Her hair is curled—but it’s not that. “Come on in.”
She reaches behind me, closing the door. Taking a deep breath, she drags her palms along her sides, as if they’re damp and she’s trying to hide any evidence of nervousness. Maybe I shouldn’t have surprised her at work like this, but I figured Theodora wouldn’t mind if I stole her away for a couple of hours. All of this is her doing anyway.
“What . . . what are you doing here?” she asks, though her tone is almost accusatory.
I lift a brow. “You seemed a little tense the last couple of times we talked . . . thought maybe I could take you out to lunch, cheer you up a bit?”
Chewing on the inside of her lip, she nods. “I see.”
“The girls loved the cake, by the way . . . I forgot to tell you that. Marabel said it’s the best chocolate cake she’s ever had in her entire life—you can quote her on that.” I’m attempting to lighten the mood, but Margaux’s shifty gaze indicates I’m doing a piss-poor job at it.
She swallows, saying nothing, as she stares down at the industrial gray carpet.
This isn’t at all how I pictured this. I thought there’d be a smile. A hug. Some stolen kisses behind her closed door. Not . . . this. Not a depressing, awkward exchange.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she says, though her voice is so low I’m not sure I heard her clearly.
“Yeah.” I drag my hand through my hair. “I should have called you first . . . I called your assistant . . . she said your schedule was open, I just thought . . .”
Margaux worries her bottom lip, pacing the space in front of her window before coming to a stop.
“If something’s wrong, if something’s bothering you, just say it,” I tell her. “If you changed your mind, if you don’t want to do this anymore . . .”
I don’t want to finish my sentence.
I don’t want this to be the end.
I don’t want to give her an out, but right now it looks like that’s exactly what she needs.
Nothing about her implies she’s happy to see me.
“This is really . . . um . . . I don’t even know how to say it.” Margaux crosses her arms just below her chest, causing the fabric of her dress to strain tight against her body and shift. It’s then that I can’t help but notice a slight yet undeniable roundness to her belly—a belly that was flat mere days ago.
“What the fuck is going on?” I ask.
Margaux’s eyes turn glassy, and her lower lip trembles, but she blinks away any sign of tears and forces a smile that is more jarring than anything else.
It’s like I’m standing next to a complete stranger. Nothing about this woman—aside from her facial features—resembles the Margaux I’ve come to know. This woman is shifty, agitated, emotional, and very fucking pregnant.