Chapter 15
Aspen
So, he wasn’t different after all…
The farther I traveled from Joz’s hotel suite, the greater the surge of anger rose within me. He chased me. He kissed me. I didn’t start any of this, and now he wanted to pull the professional card?
Fine. Fine. If he wanted professional, he’d get professional.
The cool interior of my penthouse apartment stood in direct contrast to my boiling blood.
The half-hour car journey to get here hadn’t calmed me one bit.
If anything I was even angrier. I recognized why, of course.
He’d put a colossal dent in my pride. No woman wanted a man to go all out and chase her only to have him reject her the second they locked lips.
I didn’t care what excuses he made. He’d shown his true colors, and they were moldy green and soggy gray.
Thank Christ it didn’t go any further. Imagine if I’d fucked him and then he’d pulled the “let’s keep it businesslike” card.
See, this was why I chose the single life.
Who needed all this crap, this angst? Vibrators were created for this precise reason.
They were always ready, didn’t sulk when you weren’t in the mood, and would never, ever let you down.
All they needed was a recharge every now and then, some water-based lube, and bam!
Battery Operated Boyfriend at the ready.
Beat the real thing every single time.
I beelined for my office, opened my laptop, and clicked on my email program.
Take this, Raynor, you fucking rat.
To: Joz Raynor
From: Aspen Kingcaid
Subject: Professional Parameters Moving Forward
Hi, Joz,
Following our recent conversation, I wish to clarify the terms of our professional relationship to ensure expectations are aligned going forward.
As of this moment, all non-essential personal contact should cease. Communication will be strictly related to the terms of your contract with Kingcaid Music, which includes, but is not limited to:
Completion of your first album for Kingcaid Music within the agreed timelines.
Attendance at all scheduled promotional events and interviews.
Exhibit professional behavior at all times and ensure full cooperation with all assigned staff and PR representatives.
If any issues arise, please direct them to me via email or through your manager, and I will respond during business hours. As a reminder, business hours are Eastern Standard Time, and run from eight a.m. to five-thirty p.m. Monday thru Friday.
This label is invested in your success. Our goal remains the same: to produce exceptional music and maintain public goodwill.
Regards
Aspen Kingcaid
CEO Kingcaid Music.
I sat back and reread it a few times. Satisfied with the professional tone, I scheduled it to deliver on Monday at nine o’clock my time, which would be two in the afternoon in London.
After snapping the lid of the laptop closed, I returned to the living area, poured myself a large glass of Sauvignon Blanc, and curled up on the sofa. As the wine in the glass reduced, a tsunami of hurt rose within me.
The truth was, I’d liked Joz. More than I’d liked a man in a very long time. I felt betrayed and a little bit stupid. He’d played me, and I’d fallen for it.
Or had he? There’d been a shift I couldn’t explain.
He’d been fine, until he wasn’t. I racked my brains to recall the catalyst, the moment he’d withdrawn.
Something about him destroying me. I’d meant it in jest—a reference to his dick that I assumed he’d find amusing.
Clearly, he’d taken it in a different way, but that still didn’t explain his one-eighty.
Unless it had to do with his former girlfriend who’d died.
A subject that he’d made clear was off limits.
Perhaps some distance was what we both needed. He’d be back in New York in a little over three weeks to record his album. We could talk then. Or not. Whatever.
Overcome with exhaustion, I crawled into bed and promptly fell asleep.
My office was quiet as I padded through the hallways at seven-thirty on Monday morning.
I might’ve told Joz in my email that my business hours were eight thru five-thirty on weekdays, but that wasn’t true.
I worked seven days a week and didn’t mind at all.
Besides, what else did I have to do? Not Joz, obviously.
I fired up my computer and buried myself in work. I lost track of time, and when I looked up, Penn was standing there with two coffees in one hand and a bag of what I hoped were pastries in the other.
“You move like a serial killer.”
He grinned and dropped the bag on my desk. “Got your favorite. Apple Danish.”
“You know the way to my heart.”
Sinking into the chair opposite my desk, Penn peeled the lid from his coffee, blew across the top, and took a sip.
“So, Asher tells me you’ve got the hots for your latest signing.”
“Had. Had the hots. And Asher has a big mouth.” Although I hadn’t told him it was a secret, and he and Penn were brothers who honestly gossiped more than any woman I knew.
“Wow, you move on fast.”
I brought up my hand. “Don’t. It’s a touchy subject.”
“Ooh, now I really want to know.” He propped his elbows on my desk and rested his chin on his folded hands. “Gimme the skinny.”
See what I mean? A true gossipmonger. Couldn’t say I appreciated being front and center of the gossip train, though.
“Not much to tell. He chased me relentlessly, made it clear what he wanted. Waited for me to cave. Kissed me, then bailed, citing a bullshit line of ‘let’s keep it professional.’” I sighed and took a huge bite from the Danish.
“Fuck off.”
“Truth,” I said, mouth full of pastry.
“What a jerk.”
“Yeah.” I glanced at the digital clock in the top right-hand corner of my computer. Nine oh three. My stomach swooped. He’d have my email by now. “But you know me. Never one to trounce over someone’s wishes, so I sent him an email.”
“Of course you did.” He leaned even farther forward. “Do I want to see it?”
Heat filled my cheeks. “No.”
“Oh, see, now I definitely want to see it.”
Knowing Penn wouldn’t relent until I’d given him what he wanted, I opened the mail from my sent items and turned my screen to make it easier for him to read. He scanned it in silence. I watched his face, waiting for the inevitable wince.
He didn’t disappoint. “Wow,” he muttered.
“It’s clear, it outlines expectations, and it’s in line with what he said he wanted.”
“It’s brutal.”
“Professional,” I corrected.
“Sure, if you define ‘professional’ as emotionally nuking someone at nine o’clock on a Monday morning.” His eyes met mine. “You know why you’re mad, right?”
I stared at him, jaw tight. “It is two in the afternoon in London, not nine in the morning. And I’m not mad.” I was on Saturday night, but I’d had time to cool off. Now I was indifferent.
“Yes, you are. You’re pissed that he kissed you, made you feel something, then yanked away the good loving like it meant nothing. And now you’re trying to rewrite the narrative to show you’re in control.”
My chest tightened. Penn had always been able to see through me easier than tracing paper. “He made a decision. I respected it. With bullet points.”
Penn huffed out a laugh. “Did he tell you why he changed his mind? I mean, it’s odd for a guy to go after a woman he’s interested in, only to walk it back right when the prize is begging to have its wrapping peeled off.”
“Good Lord. How you won Gia over with lines like that is beyond me.”
He laughed again. “Okay, that wasn’t one of my better ones, but you see what I’m saying.”
“All too painfully. And, no, he didn’t say, just trotted out the professional card. If I had to guess, I’d say something I did or said tripped a bad memory and his flight mode kicked in.” I briefly updated him with what I knew about Caroline. “He won’t talk about her, though, and I won’t push.”
“Nor should you, but, yeah, given what you’ve told me, it does sound like that could be the reason. In which case, you’re best giving him space and letting him come to you.”
“On his hands and fucking knees, I hope.”
“You’re savage, A.” He pressed the top on his coffee and stood. “Gotta run, but I’m around if you need to talk.”
“You’re the best. I’m okay, though, truly. My ego is a bit dented, but it’ll recover.”
“Atta girl.” He left my office, closing the door behind him.
I returned to the email, reading it again in the cold light of an early Monday morning instead of a wine-induced Saturday night following a hurtful rejection.
Penn had a point. It was pretty brutal, and I could only imagine Joz’s reaction when he read it. All day, I braced for a cutting reply, but none came. By the time I left the office at a few minutes after seven o’clock in the evening, I acknowledged something far more hurtful than Joz’s rejection.
The taste of regret was sourer than a ripe lemon, but it was too late now. I’d made my bed, and I’d be lying in it alone.