Yet it was the right decision to leave. I’m not second-guessing it, however much I still respondwhenever that bastard is in the same room as me. I hate my body for that. Traitor.
He’s not going to let me go quietly. I realize that now. And I’m damn sure not going back into that meaningless relationship, not after I’ve finally found the courage to walk away. I need to be strong, be prepared that he’s going to try again and again until he finally gives up.
Won’t that be fun.
At least I blocked his number. Good decision, right move, pat on the back to me.
And I’ll just continue to ignore that I…likedthat he was here. That some twisted part of mewantedhim to come. Wanted him to fucking acknowledge my existence, for once. Even if it was to walk in and say, “Here, puppy. Heel.”
That’s the most twisted part of all.
I almost followed him out.
The weekend is full of Star Trek Next Gen—after I’ve set things right with Carol—and a deep dive into the HM&L file. I want to be ready for calls and meetings on Monday, show them what I can really do. I also want the damn thing finished as soon as possible, so I can get paid.
But it’s several weeks’ work, which is both good and bad.
Monday finds me dressed in my best blouse, justenough makeup to be professional, running through my preliminary findings with the lead lawyer for their client. It’s not an exaggeration to say he’s impressed, and the affirmation hits me harder than I want to admit. It’s something else that’s been missing from my life—recognition of my value. That it has to come from a man I barely know, and not myex-fiancé, is a real nail in the coffin for Alex. I’m well on the way to recovery, and it’s not quite been a week since I walked out.
As the morning progresses, I have two more one-hour sessions with HM&L, and find time to give a quick update to my wealthy client on his daughter’s boyfriend. Spoiler: bad idea. It’s met with no surprise and he instructs me to dig deeper. A much-needed paycheck is wired to my account, and I assure him I’ll get right on it. Both projects to manage at once—the perfect problem to have. Keeping busy is what I want.
Mid-afternoon, I’m on a call with three of HM&L’s lawyers when a knock comes on Carol’s door. I glance at the time. She’s not due back until six. Making my apologies, I put my headset on mute, listening to them continue talking as I go to answer it.
I’m expecting it to be a delivery. It’s not. It’s an Alex.
Wearing one of his ridiculously expensive suits beneath his Brioni overcoat that looks like it’s been dry cleaned since I left it on the floor of the closet.
It’s fucking three-twenty on a Monday afternoon, and he’s standing at my door. Carol’s door. No,mydoor. I legitimately live here now.
What the hell is he doing? Why isn’t heworking?
I’m holding the door open, staring at him, sayingnothing. He’s standing there with a goddamnsmileon his face. And I have absolutely no idea what the lawyers have been saying for the last minute. Or twenty, for that matter. My mind’s gone blank.
“You can’tbehere,” I hiss, even though I’m on mute. I urgently check the light on my headset mic: red. Thank God for that. Yeah, on mute.
I’m sorely tempted to slam the door in his face, and he seems to sense it. He takes a small step forward, not specifically to put his toe in the way, but he still crosses the threshold. I take a step back.
“Can I come in?”
“You already are.” I scowl. “I’mworking, Alex.”
“That’s fine. I’ll wait for you to finish.”
Like it’s a ten-minute call and I’ll have nothing to do afterwards. Thenerveof the man.
“I’m on a goddamn conference call. With three other people.” And I really need to get back to it.
“I’m not in a rush.”
What?
Does he even realize it’s not a Sunday?
Which wouldn’t make a difference anyway. He’s worked every Sunday since Christmas.
Who is this man, and why does he look so much like Alex?
“Suit yourself.” I turn and walk back into the living room, pick my laptop up, and carry it into my bedroom. Closing the door as Alex closes the front door. While he’s onthisside of it.
