Because the thing is, it’s not just that he’s moving on.It’s that he’s moving on faster than I did.It’s that he’s giving her what he never gave me.It’s that, apparently, I wasn’t worth the piece of paper, but she is.
And god, that hurts.
I finish the whiskey in three long swallows, and Rick gives me a look that’s equal parts impressed and concerned.
“Rough day?”he asks.
“Rough year,” I mutter.
He nods like he gets it.“Another?”
I should say no.I should drink water and eat something and pull myself together before I get on that plane.I should be the responsible, put-together executive assistant who has her life under control.
Instead, I push the glass forward.“Yeah.Another.”
He pours, and I watch the amber liquid catch the light.Around me, the airport continues to hum with holiday cheer.Somewhere in the distance, those carolers are murdering “Deck the Halls,” and a child is shrieking with delight over something Santa-related.The garland and lights and forced merriment press in from all sides, making it harder to breathe.
I pull out my phone again, my fingers hovering over Alexander’s name in my contacts.For one wild, irrational second, I consider calling him.Telling him I changed my mind.That I’m coming back to New York, and he can have his executive assistant for Christmas after all.
Four days ago, I was standing in his office, arguing with him about this vacation.Four days ago, he told me one month was too long, that Christina wasn’t me, that he needed me there.Four days ago, I walked out of his office thinking I’d won.
Now I’m not so sure.
“Olivia.”
I freeze.
That voice.Deep and steady and impossibly familiar.I must be imagining it.I must have finally cracked under the pressure because there’s no way?—
“Olivia,” the voice says again, closer this time.
I turn my head slowly, half-convinced I’m hallucinating, and find Alexander Castellano standing beside my barstool.
He’s wearing dark jeans and a charcoal cashmere sweater that I don’t think I’ve seen before.There’s a sleek black carry-on beside him, the one he takes for short business trips.
Alexander is not looking at the bar, or at my drink, or even at me exactly.He’s staring at my hair, which is down in loose, natural waves, falling past my shoulders.Waves that take an hour to tame into that straightened, refined style he sees every day.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks.He just stands there, his gray eyes moving from my hair to my face, taking in the oversized cream sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder, the jeans that actually hug my curves instead of the tailored slacks I wear to work.
I look down at my glass of whiskey.Then back at him.“I couldn’t have gotten drunk enough to be hallucinating,” I say out loud, more to myself than to him.“It’s only been two drinks.”
I reach out with my hand to touch his face, just to be sure.His hand wraps around mine before I can make contact, and his mouth twitches.Almost a smile.But his eyes are still on my hair, and there’s something in his expression that makes my stomach flip.
“You’re not hallucinating,” he says.
“I have to be,” I mutter.“Why else would I see you here when you should be at work?”
“I decided to take a vacation as well,” he says absently, like he’s not really paying attention to his own words.Then, without asking, without any warning at all, he reaches out and touches a strand of my hair that’s fallen forward over my shoulder.
I go completely still.
His fingers are gentle, barely there, and he tugs at the strand as if to make sure it’s real.The touch lasts maybe two seconds, but I feel it everywhere.His hand drops back to his side.
“I’ve never seen it down,” he says, his voice is curious.“Your hair.”
My brain short-circuits.“What?”
“In all these years, I’ve never seen you with your hair down.”
