Page 78 of The Sweetness of Life

“Shelby, please, I can explain.” No three words have ever been uttered more often when it comes to getting busted, being caught, and they are pathetic. Her eyes flash to mine, and there are a thousand emotions swimming in them. The one that grabs me and squeezes the most is disappointment.

Holding up one hand, she shakes her head just as my mouth opens. I’m not sure what I can say to make this better, but begging is a good start. Her chin trembles, her eyes glaze over, and my heart splinters into an infinite number of pieces.

Slowly, she drags her eyes away from mine and looks over to Michelle, to Kyle, and then around my office. It’s as if she’s seeing us for the first time, and her lips press together. Tears float in her eyes but don’t fall as she raises her head higher and nods in understanding. She thinks this was all for business . . . and nothing more.

My heart aches, my chest aches, my head aches, and my hands desperately want to reach out and grab her. But I don’t. I can’t. Instead, I watch her fingertips find her lips. I don’t know if she’s trying to physically stop the small quiver there or if she doesn’t even know she’s done it.

Dropping her hand, she lets out a sigh and takes a step back out of the doorway. The light shifts, revealing just how pale her face is as she straightens her shoulders and turns cold, indifferent eyes back to me.

I’ve hurt this girl, this beautiful, kind, funny, wickedly talented girl, and I know the damage is irreparable. This one look, this one definitive look, it says it all . . .

I’ve lost her.

Old Fashioned Sweet Tea

I PUT ONE foot in front of the other and walk out of Zach’s office. The weight of the three of them staring at me falls so heavily on my back, I feel like it’s collapsing my ribcage and I can’t breathe. Tears blur the hallway in front of me and begin to fall one after the other.

How did I let this happen to me? I’ve never put myself in a situation where I think someone will take advantage of me, yet that’s exactly what I’ve done. Every mantra I’ve told myself, every move I’ve made professionally, every relationship I’ve not given myself to—turns out it was all for nothing, because no matter what, here I am in the one position I never wanted to be in.

Used.

Hurt.

Picking up the pace, I reach the back exit door and push through to the outside. The brightness from the sun blinds me and I squeeze my eyes shut. Blinking a few times, they adjust, but I keep my gaze on the ground in front of me. I don’t want to look at the vineyard or be reminded of how beautiful it is.

I fell under the spell of this place, of him, and I’m so embarrassed.

I feel manipulated and taken advantage of, but I also feel naive and incredibly stupid, which is all on me.

How did I not see right through him? He hated me when I first arrived, and I was so blinded by the beauty and magic of this place and him—this gorgeous ex-football player turned successful business owner—that I allowed myself to be duped and manipulated. He didn’t like me, he told me he didn’t like me, and then he has a sudden change of heart? No, that doesn’t happen, not in real life. He dates actresses, supermodels, high-profile women—not small-town chefs. He had a motive, a plan, and I played right into it.

Stumbling, I curse under my breath and then pull my heels off. Once I’m out of sight of the manor, I run.

I never should have come up here. After seeing the crow, I shouldn’t have tempted fate. I could have stayed in my perfect bubble, gone home the day after tomorrow, and taken memories with me that could be remembered fondly for a lifetime.

Instead, everything is now tainted, and I allowed the one thing to happen that I swore I never would. He used me, just like my father used my mother.

Memories of being that sad little thirteen-year-old come flooding to the surface, and my father’s voice rings out in my ears. “Don’t you get it? The fastest way to the top was through you. I needed the connections. I don’t love you, I never planned on loving you, and well, as for Shelby, she was a mistake.”

A mistake.

Yes, I’ve grown up, and I do realize there are wonderful people in the world and some not so wonderful people. That is just reality, but that doesn’t mean the indescribable ache that comes with not being wanted and hearing that I was a mistake is something that ever truly goes away. It can be buried, because life goes on, but it isn’t forgotten, and Zach got out his shovel and dug up the ghosts of a pain I never wanted to feel again.

By the time I reach the cottage, I’m out of breath and my feet hurt, but I don’t stop—can’t stop—until I’m through the door with the lock secured behind me. Hidden from prying eyes, I allow myself a single heartbroken audible sob before I swallow the emotions. I hate crying. There’s no point to it. It doesn’t make things better; it only makes you weak, vulnerable.

My shoes make a loud thud when they hit the floor, and piece by piece, my clothes follow as I make my way to the bathroom.

The water is freezing when I step into the shower. I mean, people take cold showers when they’re upset, right? Wrong. This is the worst idea ever, and I end up huddled just out of the spray, waiting for the shower to heat up. There, pressed against the frigid tiles, I pick up all the chains I let drop the day I let Zach in and add a few more—shock, humiliation, gullibility, sadness. I hate that they’ve made me feel less than who I am, like a disposable pawn.

All of my teenage years I felt like a pawn. My father used my mother and me as pieces in his life until he didn’t need us anymore, making us disposable, and my mother emotionally used me because she couldn’t handle how her life had turned out. I became the parent and she became the child. She became weaker than she already was, and I vowed never to turn out like her. I would never let someone else define who I was. She didn’t have a lying, cheating man anymore—so what? She had to get a job and work like the rest of the world—so what? She lost her fake, Stepford identity and never found it in herself to get a new one, a genuine one—so what?

It was pathetic. She was pathetic. And I refuse to be her.

Sitting down under the spray, I shiver, hoping to end up numb, but instead the pain staining my skin doesn’t wash away and is replaced with anger as the water warms. I’m not even sure what I’m angry at. It could be him, me, or both; all I know is that this assignment is done.

Done.

There’s a loud knock on the front door, startling me, and my heart hammers in my chest. I know it’s him, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to answer it. Still, I turn the water off with more force than necessary, grab a towel, and head into the bedroom.