8. Jenna
JENNA
“ I t’s a bright, new, sunshiny day!” I tell the ceiling in the guest bedroom in the townhome I shared with Nathan.
My fiancé said he had to work when I got back with the food and didn’t want to eat dinner with me. And he took his plate into the den to work. I holed up in the guest bedroom to self-medicate with pasta and cheesecake to try to forget that my ex-freaking-fiancé faked his own death.
The lamplight illuminates the carnage from my emotional-support takeout therapy session.
There’s pasta glued to my chest. I pick at it and stumble around in the dark, looking for my bra.
After rummaging around in the piles on the floor, I put on some clothes from a few days ago. Yes, I’ve been spending a lot of time here. Not that I’d ever admit it to McCarthy .
A chime from my phone is loud enough to wake up Truman, who is apparently sleeping on my bra. The dachshund raises his head, the lace bra cup on his head sliding down like a hat as he yawns.
I grab the container of leftover mozzarella sticks and chew on my breakfast as I scroll through the fifty messages on my phone.
Lots of threats. Accusations that I am a liar and a cheater and a slut. All from unknown numbers.
Andreas must have started getting savvier after McCarthy freaked him out. Or it could be Brock.
Hmmm… Which ex is stalking me? Who knows? Who cares?
Delete, delete, delete.
“Praise Jesus there’s cheesecake left. Wine’s all gone, though. Boo.”
Nathan’s already left for the day.
He’s been either staying late at the office or leaving for work early recently.
Suspicious? No?
No.
Nathan loves me, and he’s working hard so that we can have a wonderful future and give our children the idyllic, stable childhood I never had.
“I’m ignoring you!” I say to McCarthy’s voice, which, for some reason, has taken up residence in my head. “You are miserable and want the rest of us to be miserable as well.”
The empty kitchen doesn’t respond.
“Not this girl! I’m here to make the world a better place! One reformed billionaire at a time.”
Yes, my life is a mess, but I am actually good at my job. Sure, it may not seem it right now, what with McCarthy’s reputation technically being worse off than when I started this contract, but hey! Nowhere to go but up, right?
Today is a new day.
Though, McCarthy is, shall we say, less than thrilled when I show up at his penthouse at six in the morning.
“Goooood morning! Who’s ready to be the best version of himself today?”
He slams the door in my face.
I resume my knocking.
Truman barks because, unlike me, who is really reaching for that positive attitude, Truman, for some reason, is actually excited to see McCarthy.
“Just because he bought us dinner and breakfast and a midnight snack does not mean he’s someone you need to suck up to,” I hiss at the dog.
“We have so many fun things planned today!” I shout through the door.
Truman’s whole body is wriggling with happiness when McCarthy opens the door again.
“Welcome to Wednesday!” I push in, bags swinging from my arms.
McCarthy glowers down at me from that impossible height.
“Why is all that shit on your mug multiplying?”
I slurp from my Stanley cup and do a little dance, sending the charms on the mug jingling and McCarthy muttering curses.
“You can’t have a bad day with a personalized Stanley cup. Look, this charm kind of looks like you.” I flick one of the jeweled charms. “Except he is happy. ”
McCarthy stalks through the penthouse.
“We have a packed day ahead.” I rush after him. “Lots of fun photo opportunities.”
“I have work to do.”
“What a coinkydink! We’re going to spend some of the time at your office. After all, a crucial step of the ten-step plan is to raise employee morale! So let’s bury our negative feelings and put on our smiling public faces and—”
He looks at me over his shoulder. “That’s fucking toxic.”
“Public relations! Yay!” I pump a fist.
Truman grunts when my Stanley cup accidentally bonks him in the head.
Lips thin, McCarthy extricates Truman from my bag and sets him on the floor, where the little dog rolls on his back for a belly rub.
“I’m not petting you,” McCarthy tells him. “I don’t like you or your owner. And why does your dog smell like garlic butter, Cupcake?”
I tap him lightly with my Stanley cup. “You will not make it in prison, not with that pretty face, so let’s be pleasant to people today!”
McCarthy bares his teeth then scowls as Truman jumps up onto the leather chair then onto the desk and flops on his back.
“Being nice is how you screwed up your life, Cupcake. You have a grocery store aisle full of terrible exes.”
Finally relenting, he scratches Truman’s belly.
“Nathan isn’t an ex.”
“Not yet.”
“My fiancé, who I love very much, and I are going to spend a romantic weekend together. I love him,” I say. “He loves me.”
He has to.
And if he didn’t ask me how I was after the funeral, that’s because he’s worried about work and securing our future.
With thoughts of yesterday come the threat of tears. To distract myself and not let McCarthy see, I check my phone for the time, ignoring the deluge of new potentially stalkerish messages.
I pat him on the arm. “Don't worry. I'm here to wallpaper over all your mental deficiencies.”
“ My mental deficiencies?” he barks. “Cupcake, I already know more about your dating life than I ever wanted to. I could write a dissertation on your romantic delusions.”
“I don’t want to hear you accuse my fiancé of cheating on me again,” I say, warning him.
“I don’t have to. A little introspection and you’ll see I’m right.”
A stack of books drops on his desk with a bang.
“These are self-help dating books.” He holds them up one by one. “This one is well reviewed. This one is from a person with a PhD. This is by an influencer who believes in crystals and ley lines, so it's probably more on your level.”
“Ooh! Pink! Aww, McCarthy!” I beam at him. “See? You can be a nice person.”
He gets in my face. “Your dating life is the most stressful thing going on for me right now, and that includes having my little brother screw up in my office on a daily basis and ruin million-dollar satellites.”
“ Choo, choo ! Let’s ride that Mr. Nice Guy train all the way to the station of gratitude!
” I spin to the door. “We’re bringing pastries for your employees, and we have to get in line at the bakery.
Where’s your security team? I want to go over the itinerary with your head of security.
After yesterday, I’m sure he’s locking everything down. ”
McCarthy twists, reaching under his jacket. He pulls out a gun.
I squeak.
“I don’t need a goddamn security team. This is America. I have Smith, Wesson, and the Second Amendment. Let someone fuck with me. I wish they would.”
“Oh my gosh! Put that away. Don’t pull a gun at the doughnut shop.”
“Aw, Cupcake, did you want a hot bodyguard with a big salary and a pension to sweep you off your feet? Is that it?”
“No. Contrary to what you might think, I am in a happy, fulfilling relationship and am not in the market, especially not for a billionaire,” I say before he can mention his offer.
He barks out a derisive laugh. “I already knew that.” He tugs on the ribbon I sewed onto the sleeve of my blouse to disguise the fact that it had ripped getting caught on the bus seat. “You’re not dressed like someone who wants a billionaire.”
“You're all mentally ill. I wouldn’t want anything to do with you.”
He scoops up Truman before the dog can launch himself off the desk, berating me as he follows me to the door.
“Stop pretending like you don’t want to date a billionaire. I know where Nathan works, and I know his job description. His salary isn’t anywhere near enough to give you the life you want. You’re just like all the other girls. You’re not different.”
“Women exist on a spectrum.”
“You liked being able to buy whatever you wanted at the restaurant last night. Admit it. I saw you. ”
I freeze.
“You were watching me?” Did he see me hike up my bra when I thought no one was around? “You can’t spy on people. You need to mind your own business.”
“You stuffed my credit card down your bra.”
I huff. “They were rushing me. I put the receipt, several complimentary mints, and a couple toothpicks down there too. That doesn’t make you special.”
“You’re sending mixed signals, Cupcake.”
He pulls on his coat. “You like having a nice car, nice things. You like when people buy you expensive presents.” Gray eyes settle on me. “If I buy you a car, will you leave me alone for the day?”
“I don’t want a car.” I turn up my nose.
I do want a car. I desperately want a car. But I will walk five miles backward in heels before accepting anything from McCarthy.
“Liar. Women are so predictable. You want the car, but you want me to think you’re not a gold digger.”
“One, buddy, I’m in a relationship.” I thrust my left hand at him. “Two, I’m not stupid.”
My phone goes off.
“Which of her moronic exes is it, I wonder? And she insists she’s not stupid.”
I feel my face get hot. “ Three —and yes, I’m ignoring your toxic baiting behavior because that’s how you deal with children— three , I work with billionaires all day.
I know how to do math, and it ain’t impressing me much.
You buying me a car is like a normal man buying a girl a muffin from Starbucks. Sweet but not impressive.”
“Of course it’s impressive. It’s a whole-ass car,” he says.
“Honestly, I’d rather have a muffin. ”
“Bullshit.” He slams the down button on the elevator.
Truman barks.
“I know, she is stubborn and delusional, isn’t she?” He tugs one of the dog’s silky ears. “If I offer you a muffin or a car, you’re taking the car. You won’t admit it because you're just being contrarian.”
“Yeah, it's obnoxious, isn't it?”
“I'm not being contrarian. I'm right, and you're just wrong,” he shoots back.