His mouth pulls tight, and I can almost taste his disdain. “Did you run this by Rowena?”
“Yes,” I lie smoothly.
Technically, I’ll be running it by her in a few hours. I’m not about to tell him that and have him try to stand over my shoulder and watch as I build a winning motion.
“Right. Well, if you want me to look over it?—”
“I don’t. You can leave now,” I say, offering him a razor-thin smile.
He glares hard. “Aubrey?—”
“I’ll circulate the draft once Rowena reads and approves it. If that’s all, please, for the last time, get out of my office.”
I reach for the folder and tuck it away before reaching for another, effectively dismissing him. For a moment, my office is peacefully silent once again.
Then he spoils it.
“Try not to choke on your workload. It would be a shame if someone with your . . .potentialstumbled,” he sings, the smugness in his voice as thick as molasses.
I tilt my head, sizing him up with slitted eyes. “My concern is that you’ll strain yourself trying to keep up, Spencer.” Bit by bit, I watch his empty grin drop until there’s nothing left of it. “Close the door on your way out.”
It slams, but I take it. The moment he’s gone, I grab the computer mouse and shake it until my screen comes to life again. When I open up my draft, I stare at the blank page.
I’ve been trying to start it all day but haven’t been able to. Spencer’s visit hasn’t helped matters in the slightest. Other than fill me with a bit more pettiness, I’m not further enticed to begin. I love my job, and I know I’ve got this case in the bag with my motion, yet here I am, disregarding it once again to grab my phone.
The lack of messages from Finn is hard to swallow. It ate at me all day Saturday, and by Sunday, I was an embarrassing sight of typed but not sent apologies and social media refreshes. He’s giving me space after I ran from his house like I was afraid the walls were going to swallow me whole, but I don’t want it.
Still, I haven’t taken the steps to reach out, either. All of my texts get deleted the moment I finish typing them. There’s something wrong with me, but I’m too afraid to put a name on it.
That’s why I continue to stare at the message he sent me before my date, wishing another would pop up and fix all our problems.
What would that be, though? What could he possibly say that would fix this?
If he told me he hated the kiss, I’d be devastated, not relieved. And if he said he wanted to do it again . . . I don’t have an answer for that. Not one that I’m prepared to say to him, at least.
I can hardly even admit to myself that our kiss was the best I’ve ever had.
My phone buzzes in my palm, and I stare at the name at the top, feeling my stomach dive. Brielle’s been the one person I did speak to this weekend. I forgot about the plans we made for tonight.
Brielle: Still good for drinks????? I’ve got a reservation at my new FAVOURITE place. Six work? I can always move it to seven if you need me to
I sigh, hating that I’m not excited for this. Going out sounded like a great plan when I was drinking wine from the bottle Saturday night, alone and watching a Hallmark Christmas movie in May. But now, I’m not so sure.
Me: Which place??
Her reply comes instantly.
Brielle: Pretty Little Pour. It just opened a couple of weeks ago in Yaletown!
Right. She’d invited me to the launch, but I was too far down the Ford case rabbit hole to go out drinking. The pictures she shared looked beautiful, and considering the place doesn’t have any TVs, I wouldn’t be forced to watch the Havoc game like I would at a regular sports bar. Or if I was home alone and turned it on the way I always seem to do, regardless of my mood.
Me: Want to go earlier? I’m taking a half day.
The impulse decision isn’t met with any pushback. I stand and gather my things quickly before dumping them into my purse and stalking out. My assistant’s behind her desk, and I swallow the scolding words that immediately want to escape when I think back to Spencer’s visit. Instead, I tell her to let Rowena know I’m leaving and to shift my schedule around for the rest of the day.
I can’t focus on anything here, anyway. I’m better off drinking with my girlfriend and inevitably telling her everything that’s got me so twisted inside.
“Wait—you’re not kidding?”Brielle asks, her hot pink lips parted in response to my information dump.
