He was supposed to come home with me over the holidays. My mother was so excited. She even wanted to start planning the wedding.”
Libby pensively knitted her brows together. “The truth. That you broke up with him. It wasn’t working out. Less is best. They don’t need to know all the details.”
Libby was right—the truth was the only way to go. But I was going to wait till I got home to break the news to my overprotective parents. Why worry them sick now? I took another gulp of the comforting wine; it was beginning to dim the pain. My tears subsided.
“Lib, do you think it’s weird that some strange producer sent me that footage?”
“Yeah, it’s definitely a little random. But most likely, just a weird coincidence. You should take his pitch. Maybe he’s some cute single guy.”
“Shut. Up.” Only Libby could make me laugh when all I wanted to do was cry.
“Sorry.”
“I’m going to go call it a night.”
“Maybe you should take a day off from work tomorrow. Sleep late and treat yourself to a massage.”
While Libby’s suggestion was so tempting, I didn’t want to miss a day of work, having so recently started my job. I only hoped I could hold it together in front of Blake. The last thing I wanted was to let him see me blubbering like a child. It was bad enough he’d seen me make a drunken fool of myself in Vegas.
Fifteen minutes later, I was tucked in my bed. The footage of Bradley and Candace replayed in my head as if it were on a loop. Tears singed my eyes. We’d been together almost five years, and now in five minutes, it was over. Just like that.
In the morning on my way to work, I was going to drop off his Christmas present at the Salvation Army. Yes, I could return or exchange it, but I didn’t want to touch or see anything that reminded me of Bradley Dickwick.
My tears succumbed to sleep.
Chapter 13
Blake
I got to my office super early; I couldn’t wait to get there to see if my little ruse had worked. When I walked past her office, she wasn’t at her desk yet. She was late. This could be a good sign or a bad one. Either she’d had a brutal breakup or major make-up sex with Dickwick. Shit. I’d never thought about the second possibility, and I didn’t like it one bit.
Once settled in my office, I kicked up my legs on my desk and thumbed through the latest Hollywood Reporter to distract myself. On the last page dedicated to Hollywood happenings, there was a photo of me and Kitty-Kat or whatever the fuck her name was at Jaime Zander’s art gallery opening. We were standing in front of The Kiss, the painting Jennifer adored. My pouty hook-up in her low-cut halter gown was sucking up to the camera. I looked rather solemn. The photo was taken just after shithead Dickwick yanked Jennifer away from me. Hopefully, that wouldn’t be happening again any time soon. My heart pulsed with anticipation. If Operation Dickwick was a success, Jennifer could be mine. All mine.
At the sound of a shuffle, I looked up and saw her. Dressed head to toe in black, she was back to wearing her glasses. But beneath the lenses, I could see her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. And she looked paler than usual. I had to refrain from smiling. All good signs. My eyes traveled down to her hands. Damn. She was holding a stack of books I’d asked her to option, making it impossible to see if she was wearing her ring. The tower of books extended from her waist to her chin. Definitely an overload. As she slumped toward me (another good sign, but maybe she was just weighted down by the books). I bid her good morning. When she lifted her chin to acknowledge me, the top book slipped off the pile. In an effort to save it, she panicked, and in an instant, all the books went flying to the floor. I heard her mumble “shit” under her breath as she fell to her knees to retrieve them. Mr. Chivalrous—yours truly—jumped up to help her, and in a nano second, I was squatting beside her. My eyes zeroed in on her left
Libby pensively knitted her brows together. “The truth. That you broke up with him. It wasn’t working out. Less is best. They don’t need to know all the details.”
Libby was right—the truth was the only way to go. But I was going to wait till I got home to break the news to my overprotective parents. Why worry them sick now? I took another gulp of the comforting wine; it was beginning to dim the pain. My tears subsided.
“Lib, do you think it’s weird that some strange producer sent me that footage?”
“Yeah, it’s definitely a little random. But most likely, just a weird coincidence. You should take his pitch. Maybe he’s some cute single guy.”
“Shut. Up.” Only Libby could make me laugh when all I wanted to do was cry.
“Sorry.”
“I’m going to go call it a night.”
“Maybe you should take a day off from work tomorrow. Sleep late and treat yourself to a massage.”
While Libby’s suggestion was so tempting, I didn’t want to miss a day of work, having so recently started my job. I only hoped I could hold it together in front of Blake. The last thing I wanted was to let him see me blubbering like a child. It was bad enough he’d seen me make a drunken fool of myself in Vegas.
Fifteen minutes later, I was tucked in my bed. The footage of Bradley and Candace replayed in my head as if it were on a loop. Tears singed my eyes. We’d been together almost five years, and now in five minutes, it was over. Just like that.
In the morning on my way to work, I was going to drop off his Christmas present at the Salvation Army. Yes, I could return or exchange it, but I didn’t want to touch or see anything that reminded me of Bradley Dickwick.
My tears succumbed to sleep.
Chapter 13
Blake
I got to my office super early; I couldn’t wait to get there to see if my little ruse had worked. When I walked past her office, she wasn’t at her desk yet. She was late. This could be a good sign or a bad one. Either she’d had a brutal breakup or major make-up sex with Dickwick. Shit. I’d never thought about the second possibility, and I didn’t like it one bit.
Once settled in my office, I kicked up my legs on my desk and thumbed through the latest Hollywood Reporter to distract myself. On the last page dedicated to Hollywood happenings, there was a photo of me and Kitty-Kat or whatever the fuck her name was at Jaime Zander’s art gallery opening. We were standing in front of The Kiss, the painting Jennifer adored. My pouty hook-up in her low-cut halter gown was sucking up to the camera. I looked rather solemn. The photo was taken just after shithead Dickwick yanked Jennifer away from me. Hopefully, that wouldn’t be happening again any time soon. My heart pulsed with anticipation. If Operation Dickwick was a success, Jennifer could be mine. All mine.
At the sound of a shuffle, I looked up and saw her. Dressed head to toe in black, she was back to wearing her glasses. But beneath the lenses, I could see her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. And she looked paler than usual. I had to refrain from smiling. All good signs. My eyes traveled down to her hands. Damn. She was holding a stack of books I’d asked her to option, making it impossible to see if she was wearing her ring. The tower of books extended from her waist to her chin. Definitely an overload. As she slumped toward me (another good sign, but maybe she was just weighted down by the books). I bid her good morning. When she lifted her chin to acknowledge me, the top book slipped off the pile. In an effort to save it, she panicked, and in an instant, all the books went flying to the floor. I heard her mumble “shit” under her breath as she fell to her knees to retrieve them. Mr. Chivalrous—yours truly—jumped up to help her, and in a nano second, I was squatting beside her. My eyes zeroed in on her left
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