Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 153935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153935 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 770(@200wpm)___ 616(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
For Jordan. For Mag. And, of course, for me.
Winding through the hallway, I nearly collide with a young doctor.
“Are you okay?” he asks. “Are you hurt?”
Yeah, but you don’t have a drug for this one, Doc.
“I-I-I’m f-fi-ne.”
God, it’s hard to talk while sobbing.
He lays a hand on my arm.
“Did you lose someone?” he asks, his voice so gentle.
I nod through the tears as his words bolt through me. I’m not just his EA anymore, and if that scene back there is how he’s going to keep treating me, we can’t survive.
Yes, I’ve lost him. Hell yes, it’s over.
The doctor squeezes my shoulders. “It’s okay. Everything happens for a reason, and there’s no grief that can’t be conquered with time.”
“With any luck, he’ll burn in hell,” I strangle out.
The doctor releases me and stumbles back, his mouth hanging open. It’s only then in my ruined state that I realize he thought someone died. I just meant they reverted back to their arrogant rich bitch self.
“Sorry,” I mutter, but the tears are less heavy now as I crawl into an elevator down the hall.
In no time, the elevator dings.
Thank God.
I want out of this elevator, out of this hospital, and out of this life.
I wander into the parking lot looking for Armstrong. I don’t see him here, but it’s so dark the town car could blend in. A steady cold rain sleets through the night, making it hard to see anything.
Just before I spot my ride, I shoot Mag a text, letting him know he can lose my fucking number.
I’m as done as I am hollowed out.
A horn honks. I glance up from my phone. The town car roars in right beside me.
In the back seat, I’m instantly assaulted with the earthy masculine scent of Magnus Heron. I burst into tears again.
“Brina, are you okay?” Armstrong asks, his eyes heavy with concern.
“Y-yes.” I spit through the tears.
He’s quiet for a minute. “Is Miss Quail all right? I thought she was getting better?”
I wipe a tear from my face.
“She...she’s fine.” I mutter.
“Are you warm enough back there?” he asks, confusion growing in those eyes staring back at me in the mirror.
I sniff. I hadn’t noticed before, but it’s fine.
“Yes. Nice and toasty.”
“All right. Say no more. I’ll get you to the penthouse as soon as I can.”
Torture. This is a bucket of killing ice poured over my head. The moment it becomes real.
“Take me to my apartment.” Another hushed sob flays me open.
Armstrong leaves me be but keeps looking in the rearview mirror. I want to stop, for his sake, but I can’t.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” he asks in a quiet voice, the only break in the light tapping of wet sleet.
I shake my head.
He drives in silence for a few minutes, then asks, “Is there anything I can do?”
Well, maybe one thing.
“C-c-cinnamon—” Sob. “Latte,” I whisper.
“I knew you’d say that! Hang on.” When I look outside, I realize we’re almost at Sweeter Grind, even though it wasn’t on the way. He parks and goes in for the coffee this time. When he gets back in the car, he shakes the rain from his shoulders and hands me a large cinnamon latte and a box of truffles. “Here. I used the company card. That’s the least the prick can do.”
“Huh? But I didn’t say anything about—”
“Call it a hunch,” Armstrong says with a wink.
It’s the last words we exchange before he parks at the curb in front of my apartment, the square building towering over the night like a mausoleum.
With a fortifying sip of latte, I drag my heavy feet up the stairs, into my room, and throw myself across the bed.
Sleep doesn’t come.
Neither do calls or texts.
And that’s fine.
For once, maybe Magnus Heron learned to listen to someone else.
* * *
The following day, my head rings from all the crying.
I watch the pale yellow sunrise through the horizontal blinds in my bedroom, still buried under a pile of blankets. With winter bleeding into spring, it hurts when it reminds me of a certain Arizona sunset.
Another time when I thought I’d broken through, only to be Mag’s doormat.
Never again.
A knock at my bedroom door yanks me from the depths of self-pity.
“Yeah?” I croak.
Paige opens the door, a slightly disgusted look on her face. She peers around as if she’s expecting to see someone else here.
“Holy crap. Are you okay? You were making weird noises last night and I wasn’t sure if you were fucking or crying—” Her eyes land on my bloated, red face. “Oof. So no sexy-times then.” She sits down on the bed beside me. “What happened, lady?”
My eyes are so swollen I can’t see, but I haven’t been crying for a while.
“We broke up.” My voice is small.
“Shit.” I can tell she tries not to wince. “Because he doesn’t have to take care of the kid anymore?”