Well,I don’t want to bore you with all the details but suffice it to say it has been an absolutely crap day. My 7:30 a.m. emergency PR meeting lasted until well after lunchtime with me sitting saying things like, “yes, but—” and “I really don’t think—” without finishing a single sentence the entire time. But I didn’t cry, so I suppose that’s a mini-victory for someone as truly pathetic as I am. Yay, me.
After wasting over five hours listening to the three lawyers covering the same ground in circles, I got back to my office only to find messages from six of my charities, all needing to speak with me urgently regarding my comportment out in the jungle. I spent the rest of the day trying to laugh off what happened and saying things like, “Honestly, Peter, I think it may be a form of Tourette’s that only shows itself when leaping from helicopters.”
(Incidentally, that one didn’t go over well. Who knew his sister has Tourette’s?)
Anyway, I’m filled with relief that this day is over so I can let Will help me forget all about it with a whole lot of make-up sex. Not that we need to make up. It’s not like we had a fight or something. It’ll be more like regular sex—fabulous, passionate, sexy sex with the man I love. Yes, that’s precisely what I need. I hurry down the hall toward my apartment to shower and get ready for my date. Will must be crazily excited too because he has texted me at least a dozen times today, asking me to call him about tonight. He even left an old-timey message on my voicemail.
I dial his number, not breaking my stride.
“Hello?”
There’s his sexy voice. Mmm.
“Hello yourself. Somebody’s excited about tonight,” I say in a flirty voice before realizing Bellford can hear me.
“There you are. I’ve been trying to reach you all day.”
Huh, he doesn’t sound at all sexy and excited.
“Yes, sorry I couldn’t call you back. It’s been one horrible meeting and phone call after another all day. To be honest, the only thing that has gotten me through it is the thought of our romantic evening. I cannot wait to see what you have planned.”
In the background, I hear a man’s voice over a loudspeaker:Flight number 1082 to London, England, now boarding at gate 56.
My heart drops to my knees. “Are you at the airport?”
“Yeah, that’s why I was trying to reach you. I’m so sorry, Arabella, but I got a call from Kenneth Abernathy. Do you know him?”
“No,” I say, stopping in front of the elevator doors and stomping my foot. I won’t push the button yet because I lose reception between the second and third floors.
“Oh, I wondered if you might run in the same circles. Anyway, he’s the owner and CEO of Abernathy & Co. Seems like a nice enough chap.”
“Okkkkayyy…”Please don’t say our date is off. Please don’t say our date is off.
“God, I feel so terrible about this. Kenneth wants to offer me a sponsorship deal and he’s asked me to fly to London for dinner tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Unfortunately, yeah. I tried to postpone, but this is the only night he could meet me. I felt just sick about it all day, knowing I was going to have to disappoint you.”
“Oh, goodness, don’t worry about that,” I say, masking my hurt. I push the button, hoping the elevator arrives soon so I can get off this call. “This is a huge opportunity for you. Of course you have to take it.”
“It’s a huge opportunity forus, sweetheart,” Will says. “The more my career takes off, the better chance I can build a really great life for us.”
“Flight number 1082, now boarding passengers seated in rows five through thirteen.”
“Shit, that’s me,” he says, sounding concerned. (As he should be). “Are you sure you’re okay with me missing our big date?”
“I’m absolutely fine with it. In fact, I need time to get myself prepared for my Equal Everywhere Conference next week, so I’ll do that this evening.”
“You’re such a trooper, Belle. I still feel awful about it though. It’s just that Dwight says I need to strike while the iron’s hot, and I have a feeling he’s right. The ratings last night were through the roof, and if I don’t make the most of this opportunity —”
I step on the elevator, avoiding eye contact with Bellford, who knows exactly what I’m doing. I push the number three while Will blathers on about making hay while the sun shines. Finally, the phone starts to crackle.
“Will, I’m probably going to lose you. I just got on the lift. Have a lovely time in London.”
“Thanks, hon. You’re the best. I promise to make it up to you tomorr—”
The call disconnects, and I shove my phone roughly into my suit jacket pocket. The doors open and I grumble as I stalk down the corridor. Bellford, who has obviously heard the entire thing, keeps a polite distance behind me. “You’ll make it up to me tomorrow night,” I mutter under my breath. “MaybeI’llbe busy tomorrow night. Who knows? Maybe the head of Nike is going to call and beg me to model sports bras.”
