You know that’s not the truth. A woman like her, beautiful, successful, sophisticated and smart, would never look at someone like you. She’d rather be with that asshole with the big company and society influence even if she hates his guts than be with a guy that whores himself for a living.
You know it’s she that’s too good for you.
CHAPTER 5
Gabrielle
“He’s hot,” Zoey said for the millionth time today.
I took a deep breath so I wouldn’t snap. Then I grabbed his black and red card that I could swear it had glitter under the illumination and pointed it at her. “Then why don’tyouhire him for the night?”
“I wish,” she snorted, taking the card and ogling it. “But...” she pointed at her wedding ring, “Stew is gonna kill me.”
“That’s what should happen to wives like you.” Glancing at my watch, I realized I only had three hours to be at the ceremony at eight. I put back the paperclip on the manuscript I was reading and left my desk.
“Maybe, but what’s your excuse?”
“I’m married, too.”
“No, you’re not.” She pranced behind me as I put the manuscript in my purse on the coat hanger and took the dress bag. “You’ve been single for three years. It’s more than enough to stop mourning and start…living again.”
I stopped in my tracks, my purse in one hand almost touching the floor, and the dress in the other, its bag sweeping the tiles, as my shoulders slumped. “Et tu, Brute?”
Her lips pursed and then twisted. “Gabi, you know how much I love you. I’ve been watching you suffer for so long and for no reason. I can’t stay silent anymore. Your nemesis said it, but you refused to believe him. Maybe when a friend does, you’ll finally hear it.”
“Hear what?”
“What Fletcher said…” Her lips puckered again. “People talk behind your back, Gabi, and he might be right about your grief being bad for business.”
I blinked, dazed. Listening to this bullshit from Fletcher was something, but coming from my secretary, my friend I trusted more than anyone in the world, stung, burned. “You, too, think it’s an act? Something I do to gain sympathy to stay in business? Something people got tired of, and now I need to find another act to keep them interested?”
“No! God, Gabi, no. The pain you’ve been going through isn’t easy, and I understand it may never go away. It’s not just Jack you lost on that godless day, and no one should ever go through such tragedy. I know your grief is real, as real as it gets. All I’m saying is…try not to think about it every single minute of your day and just take a fucking break from sadness.”
In other words, try not to remember. Try to stop blaming yourself. Try to let the past go.
As if that was a possibility.
If moving on and letting go of the past that scarred and ruined me for life, killed pieces of me, literally, was as easy as simply deciding to do so, wouldn’t I have done it by now?
The past—the tragedies and the mistakes that shaped your present and hijacked your future—was a living, breathing, shitting being that latched on you and your soul, like a ghost or a demon that wouldn’t leave you be until it consumed you in full and became you.
It was smeared all over every moment of your life whether you acknowledged or ignored it, its weight pulled you down no matter how many times you tried to let go, and its fucking consequences… How could you take a break from that?
We could no more get over the past than we could stop the earth from spinning.
But, obviously, I had to pretend otherwise. Because nobody liked a grumpy, sad depressing boss or friend or colleague or partner or woman. A brooding man would get support for as long as he needed, and would be even perceived as sexy and desirable.I mean look at Keanu Reeves.Even if itwasa fucking act. But me? I could only stay depressed for so long before people lost patience and started rolling their eyes behind my back.
And if my friend was telling me this to my face, then other people were doing more than just rolling their eyes. That could ruin my chances to land the author deals I aimed to secure in the future after Rina’s. That could ruin Rina’s deal in the first place or even worse, push away our established authors and throw them into Fletcher’s arms.
My grief was truly bad for business.
“Just call him.” She bounced like a demanding child, even though she was almost my age. “Please.”
For the sake of keeping Brighton alive—it was the only thing left in my life I cared about—I was ready to do something as stupid and repugnant as fake dating someone to convince people I was making an effort. But there was no way in hell I was calling that glittery, muscly, pole-dancing, thong-wearing boy to ask him to be my fake date. “I’m not taking,” I looked around to make sure the door was closed and no one could listen, “an escort to the ceremony.”
“But he said he offered you a free night, which means you’re not paying him. That technically doesn’t make him an escort, at least, for tonight.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.”
