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“What’d you say?” I ask casually.

She shrugs. “I said we hadn’t, but we were looking forward to it.”

I can tell she’s dying to ask me about Jamie and my relationship to him, but she also seems like a hardcore professional. She pushes open the door and steps aside. I enter the bright room, furnished with a canopy bed, a keyboard, a guitar on a stand, two big throw rugs, and a massive fireplace. The row of windows looks out over the pond.

This might be one of my new favorite places.

“This is lovely,” I say. “Thank you so much.”

“Of course, make yourself at home. I’ll be working out of my office downstairs today. Rita’s leaving, but she’ll be back later if you’re willing to show us some samples in the afternoon.”

“Of course,” I say, even though the thought of playing samples for them makes me ill.

She goes, leaving me standing in a pale ray of sunshine in the middle of the room. I drop my bag at the end of the bed. Numb, but not in a bad way, for the first time in a while. It’s so strange how things can change. Just like that. I was so caught up in thinking I needed ITA if I ever wanted to take this career seriously.

Now, I could have my cake and eat him, too.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

JAMIE

I pace up and down the hallway. On the other side of the wall, Lenny sits with his bodyguard, waiting for me.

Pausing, I run a hand over my face.

God, I am so damn tired.

Part of me wants to step out and call Marion to tell her that I fucking quit. She can have the whole thing; I’ve got a lot of money in savings. Maybe Coen had the right idea when he said fuck it on the whole damn industry. I’ll always get a rush of adrenaline at the prospect of closing a deal, but it’s not worth everything. It’s not worth my health, my sanity, my ability to have the woman I want.

Who the fuck cares if people judge me?

Who gives a fuck about any of this?

Spinning on my heel, I push through my office doors. Lenny is sprawled out, one ankle laid across his knee. This meeting could have gone the way I planned: a polite severing of our contract. Except, he’s sitting in my chair, slumped, like he fucking owns it. The chair that Marion bought for me three years ago for Christmas.

Anger fizzles and ignites.

“Lenny,” I say, still standing with the door halfway ajar.

“Yeah?” He’s tossing one of my signed footballs, which is supposed to sit on the shelf, back and forth.

“Contract’s done,” I say.

He stiffens, sitting up. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah, the contract’s done. My assistant will send the papers today.”

He shoots up. “You fucking serious?”

“Yeah. Deadly.”

I step out and let the door fall shut. Normally, I’d agonize over what this will do to our word-of-mouth reputation. Then, I poke my head back through the door.

“And don’t ever talk to my staff like that again,” I say. “I saw you chewing out Christie. Bad form.”

Without waiting to hear his answer, I leave, red-faced and at a boiling point. Briskly, I climb the moving escalator to the second floor and stride down the middle hall to Marion’s office in the corner. She has a glass door, her name printed in black lettering across it.

I tap the glass with my knuckles.