Jilted

7. Sloane

7

SLOANE

“How were your last two weeks?” Dr. Amherst settled into her usual chair, picked up her notebook from the end table next to her, and opened to a fresh page before placing it on her lap.

“They could have been better.” I shrugged. “I saw a picture of Josh and his new girlfriend. Or rather his new- again girlfriend.”

“How did that happen?”

“On Instagram. Josh and I still follow each other. The photo was a few months old. Lately that’s all I see. Old posts. They must’ve changed the algorithm or something.”

Dr. Amherst smiled. “I miss the old days, when everyone didn’t know everything about each other’s lives. But tell me, how did the photo make you feel?”

“Like an idiot. The same way I feel when I think back to the email that popped up on his phone a few days before the wedding, with her name on it. I believed him when he said she’d seen the announcement and wanted to wish him luck.” I shook my head. “I think the fact that I believed him without question bothers me most these days, maybe even more than the fact that I was left standing at the altar humiliated and the man I loved is back with his ex.”

“That’s understandable. You placed your trust in someone who shattered it. When that happens, we’re left with the fragments of a promise that once carried a lot of weight in our hearts.”

I sighed. “I should’ve unfollowed him.”

Dr. Amherst tilted her head. “Why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment?”

She smiled. “I think it’s more likely the same reason we all look over at a car accident. When something bad happens, our amygdala is stimulated—the part of the brain responsible for processing fearful and threatening stimuli. It sends a signal to the region of the brain that analyzes and interprets things. That, in turn, causes us to evaluate what happened and make sure it doesn’t happen to us. Or in your case, make sure it doesn’t happen a second time.”

“So I’m following Josh to figure out why I didn’t see it coming? Or am I following him to keep myself miserable so I won’t get into another relationship and get hurt again?”

“Only you know the answer to that.”

I sighed. “Isn’t there a book that can tell me how to figure it out?”

Dr. Amherst smiled. “Let me ask you, when we met two weeks ago, we spoke about you joining a dating app. Have you done that?”

I shook my head. “Seeing that photo put a damper on the excitement I’d felt about doing it.”

“Sounds like you might not need a book. You just answered your own question.”

I thought about it. I supposed it made sense. I didn’t want to go through what I’d experienced with Josh ever again. When I walked down the aisle on my wedding day, I’d thought it was the beginning of the happiest moments of my life—until my dad lifted my veil and I looked over at Josh’s face. I knew something was wrong. But I was so damn clueless, I thought someone had died. I actually asked him if his grandmother, who couldn’t make that day because she was sick, was okay. The fact that my fiancé of a year and a half was about to dump me in front of all of my family and friends didn’t even enter my mind as a possibility. And it wasn’t because he suddenly got a case of cold feet, because that does happen. No, it turned out my trusted fiancé had been pining for his ex the entire time we were together. A few days before our wedding, Josh had written her a letter, telling her he wouldn’t marry me if there was any possibility he could have a second chance with her. Apparently she showed up at his apartment on the morning of our wedding and admitted she still had feelings for him, too. Yet I’d had no clue about any of it.

So maybe my reluctance to move on did have less to do with getting over Josh and more to do with learning to trust myself again. I nodded. “I’ll unfollow him today.”

“Baby steps are still steps.” Dr. Amherst smiled again.

“Okay. And I didn’t sign up for the app, but I did meet someone. And we kissed.”

“Oh? Tell me about him.”

“He’s… sort of a jerk who says what’s on his mind without regard for hurting another person’s feelings. And we argued most of the evening.”

Dr. Amherst’s brows puckered. “Is there more to that description? Because I’m not sure that sounds like someone who would make a great partner.”

I smiled. “He’s actually pretty funny. He’s got a dark sense of humor. And he has these eyes…” I drifted off, remembering how captivating they were. Though it wasn’t like I had to do it from memory alone, since I’d looked at the photos Elijah took quite a few times the last couple of weeks. “They’re a bright blueish green, maybe turquoise might be the right way to describe them. I was originally calling them azure in my head, but then I looked up the definition of azure and realized his have more green in them. And they’re lined with the thickest black lashes.”

Dr. Amherst looked amused. “You looked up azure ?”

I bit my lip. “You’d have to see the eyes to understand.”

She smiled. “Okay, well, handsome and funny are a good combination. How did you meet?”

“At a wedding. I was working. He was a guest.”

“Will you see him again?”

“Yes, but not for a date or anything. The kiss was amazing, but he’s not my type.”

“What is your type?”

That stopped me in my tracks. I wasn’t sure I knew my type at this point. Clearly it wasn’t a wholesome-looking, preppy, blond lawyer with nice manners. “I don’t know anymore.” I shook my head. “This guy just seemed like a player—you know, the cocky type who’s so good-looking he doesn’t need to put in more effort than finding a woman a cupcake to wind up in the coat closet for a make-out session.”

Dr. Amherst raised a brow. “Is that last part from personal experience?”

I chuckled. “Maybe. But in my defense, I’d had a few drinks. I don’t get to eat sugar often, and his eyes are that incredible .”

She smiled. “We all have our kryptonite. You said you’re going to be seeing him again. Is that because you run in the same social circle?”

“No, I’m covering a series of weddings—twelve fraternity brothers who are getting married over one year. They’re his friends, so I’m guessing he’ll be at them all, too.”

“Oh my. So you’ll be seeing him a lot then?”

I nodded. “But what happened the first time won’t happen again.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because now that I know what my kryptonite is, I can stay away from it.”

I had a two o’clock marketing meeting upstairs after my lunchtime shrink appointment. So I grabbed what I needed and answered an email on my phone as I waited for the elevator. The doors slid open while I was typing, so I entered without looking up. When I finally did, I froze.

Wilder’s mouth spread into a cocky grin. A kid stood next to him. He had the same turquoise eyes and dark lashes. They had to be related.

I squinted. “Why are you here?” It came out snippy, and his grin grew wider.

“Good to see you, too, Cupcake.”

The elevator was packed with people—people I was now holding up by not moving the rest of the way into the car. And everyone was staring at me. So I forced myself to take a spot near one wall. My cheeks felt warm. I was grateful elevator etiquette meant I could turn around and stare straight ahead without having to look at him. I jutted my chin, attempting to look bolder than I felt, and stared up at the numbers, pretending he wasn’t less than a foot away.

But damn, I couldn’t pretend I had no sense of smell. He smelled really, really good, definitely the same cologne he’d worn at the wedding two weeks ago. And my body was doing this weird, tingly-all-over thing. We stopped at the next floor, and I had to step out so two people could get off.

As I got back on, the kid watched me as intently as the man standing next to him. “Are you famous or something?” he asked.

I turned to make sure the kid was talking to me. “No, why?”

“I was going to ask for a selfie, if you were.”

I smiled. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He shrugged and nodded toward Wilder. “I thought you were famous because he was looking at a bunch of pictures of you on his computer.”

I raised a brow to Wilder.

“The wedding pictures for the magazine.”

The kid chimed in again. “I didn’t see any pictures of a bride. You were zoomed in on her.”

Wilder slapped a hand over the kid’s mouth. “It’s considered rude in America to talk while in a full lift.”

Everyone in the elevator car chuckled. The next stop was the executive floor, and Wilder said excuse me, so I stepped out for him and the boy to get off.

He nodded as he passed. “Have a good day. Maybe I’ll see you around later.”

The kid snort-laughed. “That means you’re definitely gonna see him. I think he’s in love.”

“Hey, Peaty. I need a favor.”

I hit the button to put my cell on speakerphone so I could finish sealing a box at my desk. “What’s up, Will?”

“One of the guys at the firehouse was on his way in, but his wife called to say her water broke. So I have to stay. Do you think you could cover me at Carrick’s again tonight?”

“Yeah, sure. No problem.”

“Can you get there by six? The day-shift guy has to leave by six on Wednesday. His wife’s a nurse and works nights, and he can’t be late because they have a baby at home. Dad’s at the bar today, but you know how that goes…”

I looked at the time on my computer. That gave me a little over an hour to run home, change, and get downtown. “I’ll do my best.”

“Thanks, sis. I owe you.”

“I’ll add it to the pile of other favors you owe me.”

After I hung up, I ran the box down to the shipping-and-receiving department and rushed back to my office to pack up for the day. I turned around to unplug my laptop, and when I faced the desk again, Wilder stood in my doorway.

I jumped. “You scared the crap out of me.”

“Sorry.” He grinned, not looking sorry at all.

“What are you doing in New York? The next wedding isn’t until next weekend.”

“I had some business to take care of. I’m in town until tomorrow, and then back a few days later.”

“Business with Bride magazine?”

He smiled. “No, definitely not. I’m in talks to add an expansion team to the USRL.”

“The USRL?”

“US Rugby League.”

“Really? That’s a thing here?”

He chuckled. “It is, indeed.”

“I guess you’re into rugby then?”

“You could say that. How about you?”

I shrugged. “I’ve never watched a game before. But I’ve seen snippets of it because my dad watches. I know it’s a tough-guy sport.”

“It’s a physical game, yes.”

“Did you ever play?”

He smiled again. “Once or twice.”

I slipped my laptop into my bag. “Where’s your sidekick?”

“Lucas? He’s having dinner with our mum’s sister.”

“Ah, you’re brothers. I knew you had to be related. You have the exact same eyes.”

“They’re from our mother. Lucas and I have different fathers.”

“He seems like a whip.”

“He’s a pain in the ass. Thinks he’s twenty when he’s only just turned fifteen.”

I smiled. “I might have a friend for him. My niece is way smarter than her father and me. Just ask her.” I tilted my head. “Look at us, having a civil conversation.”

Wilder’s eyes dropped to my lips. “Maybe we should argue? I like where that got us better.”

I laughed. “I think that was more due to the alcohol and my appreciation for cupcakes.”

“Have dinner with me tonight? I’ll stop by a bakery and ply you with martinis to increase the odds of a good night kiss.”

“Can’t. I have to work. In fact, I need to get out of here, or I’m never going to make it.”

“Moonlighting?”

“I think you technically have to get paid for it to be considered moonlighting. I’m covering for my brother at our family’s bar.”

“Your brother doesn’t pay you?”

“He can barely pay rent half the time. But the pub has been in our family for four generations. It’s the third-oldest bar in Manhattan.”

“What’s it called?”

“Carrick’s.”

“Your last name.”

I nodded.

“Would you have said yes to my dinner invitation if you didn’t have to work?”

“Probably not.” I grinned. “You’re handsome, I’ll give you that. But you’re also kind of a jerk, and overall you seem like a bad idea. Plus, I’m on a man moratorium.”

“Didn’t seem like it in the coat closet.”

I sighed. “That was a mistake.”

Wilder clutched his chest. “Ouch.”

I laughed and shoved the rest of what I needed into my bag. “I’m sure you can bat those thick eyelashes and get any woman you want.”

His eyes sparkled. “Apparently not. But I don’t give up easily.”

I hoisted my bag to my shoulder and walked out the door, leaving him standing just outside my office. Halfway down the hall, I felt eyes on my back. “Stop checking out my ass!”

“Only if you stop walking away from me, Cupcake.”

Forty minutes later, I flew through the front door of the brownstone. My niece, Olivia, was sitting on the stairs talking on her cell.

“Why are you talking on the phone in the hall? Your dad’s not even home yet.”

She shrugged. “I like it out here.”

“Whatever.” I walked halfway up the flight of stairs to where she sat and kissed the top of her head. “Freaking subway got stuck, so I’m late. I have to be at Carrick’s in fifteen minutes. Gotta go change.”

Olivia went back to talking on the phone while I climbed the rest of the stairs. At the top, I turned the corner for the next flight… and then the next. I reached the fourth-floor landing huffing and puffing and very much missing the old, slow-as-shit elevator I’d taken for granted when I lived uptown. Though the climb was forgotten by the time I caught my breath and opened the door to my walk-in closet —something I would never be able to afford if I didn’t live here.

My brother Will had bought this brownstone with the life-insurance money he got after his wife died. It had been converted into four separate apartments a half century ago. When one of the tenants moved out a few months after he moved in with Olivia, he’d asked me to live in one of the units in exchange for keeping an eye on his daughter. Will worked twenty-four-hour shifts at the FDNY. I would’ve moved to help out even without this amazing place, but being in the same building did make it easier when he worked overnights. A year after I’d moved in, Dad had been diagnosed with advanced Parkinson’s, so when another unit came up for renewal, Will opted not to keep the tenant. Instead, Dad sold his apartment and moved into the ground-floor unit here. So I lived with my family. But it was the best of both worlds. We all had our privacy, yet we could chip in and help each other.

I changed from my work clothes—a pencil skirt and silk blouse—into a pair of jeans and a Carrick’s T-shirt, tied my hair into a messy bun on the top of my head, and ran back out the door. A flight and a half down, I thought I might’ve forgotten the keys to the bar, so I stopped midstep to dig in my purse. While I did, I accidentally eavesdropped on Olivia’s conversation.

“Eww. It was gross,” she said. “You know how boxer dogs sometimes have weird, big tongues? That’s what it felt like was in his mouth. Except his tongue was dry, like his lips. Seriously, there was no spit in there. He might be cute, but I’m never kissing him again.”

Oh shit. Liv is kissing boys? Can’t that wait until she’s at least… I don’t know… thirty?

I located the keys at the bottom of my purse. My niece definitely hadn’t heard me coming, or she wouldn’t have been talking so loud. So I stomped my feet down the rest of the flight to let her know I was on my way. I didn’t have time to address kissing boys with her now, but we would have a discussion about it the next time I watched her.

I passed her the same way I’d entered. In a rush, I stopped at the step she was parked on and kissed the top of her head.

“Have a good night, Liv. Text me the recipe card for what you want for dinner this weekend so I can pick up ingredients for us to cook together.”

“Whatever.” She shrugged. It was a typical teenage answer, but I knew she looked forward to our cooking on the nights her dad worked. Her mom had been a chef at a Michelin-starred restaurant here in the city, and we’d been making our way through her recipes for the last six months.

Outside, a cab was coming down the block. I hailed it, rather than chance waiting for the subway. It was five after six when I walked into Carrick’s—not too bad. I tossed my purse under the bar, grabbed an apron, and tied it around my waist as I walked toward my father.

“Hey, Dad.” I kissed his cheek and looked over at the guy sitting on a stool on the other side of the bar. Frank had been Dad’s partner at the NYPD for thirty years. He spent more hours in this place than my father did. “Hey, Frank. How’s it going?”

“I brought my own cushion to sit on because my hemorrhoids are so bad. You guys should really get these old stools repadded before someone like me files an Americans with Disabilities Act complaint.”

I smiled, shaking my head. “I don’t think your hemorrhoids are covered. But just in case, I’m going to have to start charging you for all the beer you drink to cover the cost of replacing all the cushions.”

He waved me off. “Let’s not go crazy, little miss.”

The bar was a little fuller than usual for a weeknight—even had a few faces I’d never seen before. I generally knew most of the patrons since I’d grown up in this place. Almost all of them were either NYPD or FDNY. Most of the ones that weren’t didn’t last too long with the regular crowd.

I helped a few people, keeping my eye on Dad as he walked over to see what two guys I didn’t know wanted. They ordered, and Dad walked over to the row of taps and pulled the lever for Guinness. As usual, he filled it three quarters of the way, and his hand shook as he set it on the counter. I saw the guy eye the beer and make a face, so I walked over.

“That’s not full,” he grumbled.

I pointed to the sign. “We don’t serve sixteen ounces here. Our price reflects that you’re getting twelve.”

About two years ago, when Dad was no longer able to serve beer without sloshing it all over the counter because of his Parkinson’s, we lowered the prices of the beers and hung up a sign saying our serving size was now twelve ounces. It was less of an issue with cocktails, because people didn’t expect a vodka seven to be filled to the brim like they did a beer.

The guy shook his hands in front of him. “Maybe you should hire someone to work the bar who isn’t an alcoholic with the shakes.”

I grabbed one of the bats we kept behind the bar and lifted it to my shoulder. “He’s got Parkinson’s, asshole. You don’t like it, get the fuck out.”

He held up his hands. “Jesus, lady. I was just joking.”

“I don’t find making fun of someone’s disability very funny.” The bar had gone quiet, everyone paying attention, ready to jump in. I looked around the room. “Do any of you officers find making fun of my dad funny?”

The bar echoed with the sound of stools scraping on the tile floor. Every single guy stood from his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “Nope.”

This was why new customers didn’t last long. At least this time, I’d be glad they didn’t come back. I pointed to the fishbowl on the counter. “That’s the tip jar that goes to the Parkinson’s Foundation. Maybe stick the apology you owe in there.”

A few hours later, things had slowed down a bit. Dad was still hanging around, though most of his cronies besides Frank had gone, and it looked like even Frank was getting ready to take off, too. Dad didn’t like to leave me alone here, which was silly, because with our patrons, this place might’ve been safer than the police station. I went to the back to grab glassware out of the dishwasher, and I figured I’d try to convince him to go home while I restocked, once his buddy was gone for the night. I could tell he was tired, because he was sitting on a stool behind the bar, rather than standing.

I used a hip to open the swinging door leading from the back, a plastic bin full of clean glasses in my arms. Frank was gone, his seat now filled by what looked like might be another new patron. The man had his back to me, so I didn’t pay him much attention. At least not until I got closer and he turned.

Then I did a double take. “Wilder? What are you doing here?”