drags me away. “I’ll explain later,” she whispers.
When Annabelle pushes me through the wrought-iron gate, I make the mistake of looking over my shoulder. Margaret is yapping to someone on her cell phone, appearing completely unfazed by what transpired on the porch, but Nick is watching me, his brow furrowed as if he’s making sense of something, working it all out.
I wait until we’re driving down Lovers Lane before bursting out with it. “How long, Annabelle?”
She shifts gears, the car jerking forward, and keeps her eyes straight ahead. “How long what?”
She knows exactly what I’m referring to. Why is she avoiding it?
“All of it. How long have you been keeping your friendship with her a secret from me?”
Annabelle fidgets in her seat. “We’re not friends per se. More like casual acquaintances. We’re collaborating on a project.”
“For Junior League?”
“No, professionally. The event planning side of my company is working with her PR firm.”
“Oh,” I say, then take a deep breath, gathering courage to ask what I really want to know. “And Nick? How long have they been involved?”
“Awhile,” she hedges. “It’s complicated.”
“It appeared pretty black and white to me.”
“There’s a history there. It started after you left. Margaret introduced—”
I hold up a hand. “You know what? Never mind. It’s none of my business.”
“Lillie, would you—”
“Can we not talk about Nick and the floozy anymore?”
Annabelle shakes her head, muttering something under her breath.
I don’t care what Nick does anymore. I’ve moved on. I have a happy life in Chicago.
So why does my heart feel like it’s been pulverized in a garbage disposal?
NINE
THE FOLLOWING MORNING I’m sitting at the desk in my childhood room trapped on a conference call with Thomas Brandon and the rest of the strategy team.
Kingsbury Enterprises lost a portion of its funding allocated toward the second phase of the product launch, and the company is asking White, Ogden, and Morris to provide Dom Pérignon champagne consulting services on a sparkling cider budget.
As Thomas Brandon outlines the situation, I try hard to be an active participant in the discussion, to offer my opinion and give out-of-the-box solutions. It’s what I excel at, why I’m often assigned to the more complicated, high-dollar projects. But today I’m struggling to even follow the conversation.
“Lillie, where are you on compiling those sales forecasts?” Thomas Brandon’s nasally voice pierces my ear. “And I still haven’t received the market analyses I requested.”
I should have completed everything yesterday after Annabelle dropped me off rather than starting an hour ago, but I haven’t been able to focus on anything except Junior League and what transpired on the porch. I can still feel Nick’s stubble on my cheek, his calloused thumb below my ear. I wanted him to kiss me, touch me. Worse, I never even considered Drew. Guilt twists in my chest. But that was a momentary lapse in judgment. Nothing like that will happen again.
Besides, Nick is with Margaret now.
Images of them kissing, the smug look on Margaret’s face, the way Nick called her Mags, flash through my mind, but I quickly blot them out.
“Lillie, the items?” Thomas Brandon barks out.
Before I can reply, Ben cuts in, “If she’s unable to handle it, I’d be happy to do it.” His tone is snide, but I’m sure to Thomas Brandon he sounds helpful, a real go-getter.
I remind myself that Ben is an audible breather with sardine-smelling breath. “Everything will be in your inbox by the close of business today, Mr. Brandon,” I say, twirling a lock of hair and peering at the split ends.
Thomas Brandon fires off status questions to the other team members, but after about three minutes, the conversation reverts back to the topics of cost and scheduling, and I find myself once again not paying attention. I spin my engagement ring like a top
When Annabelle pushes me through the wrought-iron gate, I make the mistake of looking over my shoulder. Margaret is yapping to someone on her cell phone, appearing completely unfazed by what transpired on the porch, but Nick is watching me, his brow furrowed as if he’s making sense of something, working it all out.
I wait until we’re driving down Lovers Lane before bursting out with it. “How long, Annabelle?”
She shifts gears, the car jerking forward, and keeps her eyes straight ahead. “How long what?”
She knows exactly what I’m referring to. Why is she avoiding it?
“All of it. How long have you been keeping your friendship with her a secret from me?”
Annabelle fidgets in her seat. “We’re not friends per se. More like casual acquaintances. We’re collaborating on a project.”
“For Junior League?”
“No, professionally. The event planning side of my company is working with her PR firm.”
“Oh,” I say, then take a deep breath, gathering courage to ask what I really want to know. “And Nick? How long have they been involved?”
“Awhile,” she hedges. “It’s complicated.”
“It appeared pretty black and white to me.”
“There’s a history there. It started after you left. Margaret introduced—”
I hold up a hand. “You know what? Never mind. It’s none of my business.”
“Lillie, would you—”
“Can we not talk about Nick and the floozy anymore?”
Annabelle shakes her head, muttering something under her breath.
I don’t care what Nick does anymore. I’ve moved on. I have a happy life in Chicago.
So why does my heart feel like it’s been pulverized in a garbage disposal?
NINE
THE FOLLOWING MORNING I’m sitting at the desk in my childhood room trapped on a conference call with Thomas Brandon and the rest of the strategy team.
Kingsbury Enterprises lost a portion of its funding allocated toward the second phase of the product launch, and the company is asking White, Ogden, and Morris to provide Dom Pérignon champagne consulting services on a sparkling cider budget.
As Thomas Brandon outlines the situation, I try hard to be an active participant in the discussion, to offer my opinion and give out-of-the-box solutions. It’s what I excel at, why I’m often assigned to the more complicated, high-dollar projects. But today I’m struggling to even follow the conversation.
“Lillie, where are you on compiling those sales forecasts?” Thomas Brandon’s nasally voice pierces my ear. “And I still haven’t received the market analyses I requested.”
I should have completed everything yesterday after Annabelle dropped me off rather than starting an hour ago, but I haven’t been able to focus on anything except Junior League and what transpired on the porch. I can still feel Nick’s stubble on my cheek, his calloused thumb below my ear. I wanted him to kiss me, touch me. Worse, I never even considered Drew. Guilt twists in my chest. But that was a momentary lapse in judgment. Nothing like that will happen again.
Besides, Nick is with Margaret now.
Images of them kissing, the smug look on Margaret’s face, the way Nick called her Mags, flash through my mind, but I quickly blot them out.
“Lillie, the items?” Thomas Brandon barks out.
Before I can reply, Ben cuts in, “If she’s unable to handle it, I’d be happy to do it.” His tone is snide, but I’m sure to Thomas Brandon he sounds helpful, a real go-getter.
I remind myself that Ben is an audible breather with sardine-smelling breath. “Everything will be in your inbox by the close of business today, Mr. Brandon,” I say, twirling a lock of hair and peering at the split ends.
Thomas Brandon fires off status questions to the other team members, but after about three minutes, the conversation reverts back to the topics of cost and scheduling, and I find myself once again not paying attention. I spin my engagement ring like a top
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