Chapter 18
Two days on the road, photographing every beautiful detail that Ford Mercer’s mind has thought up, sleeping at the Ritz with one-thousand thread count sheets and room service and driven by the assistant hired by Ford to travel with me.
It was absolutely heaven. And I ignored every call from Harry.
It was the first shoot I’ve done where I was really allowed to just focus on the shot, the creativity and beauty of the moment, and how to play with natural and artificial light to accentuate the scene.
I didn’t worry about charged batteries, putting lens caps on–I got to focus on what I came to do, not that and the logistics of being there.
And it was certainly nice not having someone over my shoulder, judging my work.
Now, on Tuesday night, with my laptop on my thighs and my favorite Spotify playlist blaring through my phone, I’m back to reality–editing photos.
Even though Ford Mercer isn’t physically in any of these shots, I see him everywhere.
In the ornate molding that lines the underside of the bar, in the luxurious mustard velvet barstools, in the fan-like array of bar lights and the hand-painted rich green and umber stripes behind the bar.
Every last touch screams of detail-oriented Ford Mercer, and just flipping through the shots of the various locations is honestly kind of turning me on.
I know.
I should be hating him.
He left my place while I was naked and on my back.
I shouldn’t forgive him for that.
But I do.
Because in the back of my mind somewhere, hidden behind the scars and all the healed self-loathing and self-doubt, in the deepest part of me, a single question lingers, undeniably curious, unflinchingly strong.
Why?
I know Ford Mercer. I know his facial features when he’s tired (droopy eyelids, eyebrows mussed from running his thumb and forefinger over them), I know that he donates to a bunch of charities under a fake name so people don’t accuse him of donating just for clout (Scrooge McDuck, seriously), I know that he has a photo of his late wife in his wallet, and that he started speakeasies as a way to celebrate the history of bars.
I know that he hates ketchup, but loves tomatoes, and that he calls Kat “Kitty Kat” to annoy her, and calls his son Cade “CADE O KAELIN” to piss him off, too.
What I mean to say is… I know Ford. I know him drunk, I know him buzzed, I know him sober.
And what he did that night… it’s out of character. All of it. And Ford Mercer does not shoot from the hip. None of the Mercers, aside from Kat, do.
So why?
Why did he leave so quickly?
That was the question in my mind on the entire trip. Why? Because Ford isn’t bad.
I can’t hate him, because I can’t come up with an answer to that question. Not one that makes sense. And the day I went to Nineteen20 and he was there with Elle, well, he chased me.
He followed me.
With a photo of a singular barstool illuminated by a spotlight filling my laptop screen, my mind on the man who created the establishment, there’s some thudding outside, followed by a knock on my door. When I’m up and at the peep hole, I peer outside.
There is a fisheye Harry with roses lying in his arms.
Crap. I need to break up with him. Enough delusion, enough dragging it out.
I’d stupidly hoped that things could improve but the last few days away have been so incredible and I was alone.
I may not be cupid, but I do know that one should not dread coming back to their boyfriend.
That’s a sign, if I needed one, to dump him.
Though the first glaring sign should have been that I let another man finger me on a balcony at my best friend’s wedding but semantics.
“What a surprise,” I say, opening the door to a grinning Harry, his eyes a little pink behind his glasses.
“Hi, honey, can I come in?” he asks, pushing past me before I can say yes. After closing the door, I turn and am in his arms, being smothered by his chest and cologne, his lips on top of my head.
It feels nice. His warmth. The affection. The attention.
But fireworks are not erupting in my soul, and now that I’ve kissed Ford Mercer, now that I’ve had him in ways I’d only ever dreamed of, I know fireworks are in my soul. I just need someone with the match.
“This is unexpected,” I say, rewording the exact sentiment from a moment ago because I really do not know what else to say. “Actually, this is the second time in two weeks you’ve shown up with roses,” I amend once I take the dying roses from the vase, and slip the new ones in.
He steps on the garbage can lever, and the lid flies open just in time for me to drop the dead ones in. He smiles, and I smile back, and I know with all certainty that he doesn’t have a match on him.
Harry will never set me on fire the way Ford does.
He did a little when we first got together, but now that I’ve caught a whiff of what could be, I know that feeling exists.
“Harry, we need to talk,” I start, but before I can Dear John him, he slides his hands around my waist, sinking his fingers into the globes of my ass, squeezing possessively.
“I missed this sexy ass,” he says, dragging his lips along the curve of my jaw. That’s a move I typically love, but right now, it stinks.
Literally.
I step back, keeping my hands on his chest to keep him back, too. “Are you drunk?” I can smell it on his breath, but I should have known he was. It’s been a long time since he’s called me sexy. Shit. That’s a red flag, too.
“I had a few at the office, but I’m not drunk,” he says, hiccuping. “Your printer photos were a hit. Super popular.”
I blink at him. “How do you know that? I haven’t heard back from the client yet. I submitted the photos not even, what, three days ago.”
He reaches for me, but the stench of Vodka-cran is too much, and I swat his hand away. “How do you know that the client likes the set?”
He sinks into my couch, and I have never wanted to be strong enough to flip a couch until this very moment. “Harry, please, answer me,” I command, trying like hell to keep my voice low.
After a long sigh that essentially gaslights me (yes, a sigh can do that), he smiles. “I didn’t talk to the client in any official capacity. I just snagged the photos off your USB, and took a peak. Showed the guys, too.” He makes the “ok” symbol with his hand. “Top tier stuff, Jules.”
It’s only now that I realize he’s making fun of me. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before, or think of it the moment I smelled the alcohol. Harry is a mean drunk, but a horny one, too. Unfortunately, I provide those two boxes for him to check.
“Get up and get out,” I say, not even emotional at this point. “You’re the one who made me take those stupid fucking jobs and now you’re going to belittle me over it?” I should have dumped this tool weeks ago.
In his defense, he does attempt to get to his feet. It is, however, wildly unsuccessful. After every single coaster, magazine and potted succulent is knocked off my coffee table by his face, Harry peels himself off the ground and stumbles into me, grabbing my hips to steady himself.
His eyes are droopy and his speech flows like molasses. “Fuck, no matter where, you always have something for me to grab onto, don’t you Jules?”
The back of my brain goes fuzzy, like television sets back in the sixties, when programming was over and the screen went to ants. That’s my brain.
Fuzzy.
Am I really here again? After all these years? Having my body brought up to me, held to my throat like a weapon I should be afraid of? I see his game. Drunk or not, he riles me up, then tries to remind me how few other men would want me.
Insecure and fucking pathetic.
My voice shakes despite the lack of volume when I murmur, “we’re so done.”
“Ahh,” he starts, and I can finish the sentence before he even speaks the words.
And it’s not because I’m psychic. It’s because I’m a woman, and I have curves.
Those two things come together and form a free pass for assholes like Harry.
And they all say the same thing. “Don’t get all pissy, you know I was just kidding. ”
I brush past him easily and yank open the front door, and point to the cold evening waiting for him outside. “Get out,” I say, staring him dead in the eyes.
Surprisingly and fortunately, especially since I’m in an off-the-shoulder t-shirt and leggings and it’s about forty-five degrees outside and I’m freezing my tits off, he goes.
But he doesn’t fully go, he steps out between my apartment and the one across from me, then turns to face me. “Fine. I’m going. But tomorrow, you owe me a logical reason for kicking me out.”
“Tomorrow,” I balk, my mind spinning circles at how absolutely pathetic Harry must think I am.
To be fair, I have tolerated too much and in his mind, I probably can be pushed over.
“There is no tomorrow, Harry. We’re done.
Okay? Done.” I shrug, stepping out into the breezeway, even though my apartment is so warm and cozy.
He blinks at me, almost as if he didn’t hear a word I was saying. And I’m about to go full-on “he fell, officer, I promise” when I realize why Harry isn’t listening to me.
He’s listening to Ford, who appears at the top of the stairs. He throws his shoulder into Harry’s from behind as he brushes past. “I know you heard me that whole time, asshole,” he grouses to Harry.
Ford Mercer is at my apartment. And I actually grew a pair and dumped Harry.
What is even happening right now?
“Mr. Mercer,” Harry starts, making my brain spin like a fucking top. They’ve met at Mercer parties a few times, but Harry is using his uppity work voice. His phony voice. “I was trying to place you,” he stammers, and we share a glance. He’s not lying. He didn’t recognize Ford straight away.
“You really didn’t know it was me?” Ford asks, coming to stand at my side, hip to hip, like we’re in this together.