Chapter 6 #2
She ate a big bite of her bacon-and-egg roll, some of the fried egg dripping out to slide down her chin in a yellow mess. She quickly wiped it off with a paper napkin. “I don’t think I want to talk about this with you anymore.”
“EJ, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t.” She shook her head, straining to swallow the last bite. Then she swigged the last of her coffee, wadded up the paper napkin, and put the rubbish in the now-empty cup.
She picked up her phone, then shoved it at him. “See this? I’m going to block his number.” She put action to her words and did that. Then deleted the text. “Happy now?”
It was clear she wasn’t. “EJ, I really didn’t mean to say—”
“I truly do not want to talk about it anymore.” She rose, snatched up her water bottle, swigged it. “So, I’ve gotta go. I’m going to see Aunty Marion, and I’ve got other stuff to do.”
His heart hurt. Yeah, he bet she had stuff to do, anywhere away from him. “Are you still coming down this weekend?”
“Down? Oh, Wattle Vale. No, I don’t think so.” Her face slipped into false happiness. “But you have fun. Tell your mum happy birthday from me.”
“I will.”
She nodded, paced away, and he rushed to stand. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. This morning’s breakfast was supposed to have been a chance for them to reconnect, to maybe see if he could take her out for a meal tonight, not for him to let his stupid jealousy chase her away. “EJ—”
“Well, thanks for brekkie.” More artificial brightness. “I’d better go.”
“Hey.” Before she could turn and run, he hurried to her and wrapped her in a hug. She squeaked in protest, but soon the tight shoulders eased, and she relaxed. “I’m sorry for upsetting you. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I don’t think you’re beautiful,” he whispered. “I do.”
“It’s okay. You don’t need to lie. I know I’m not.”
She wiggled, and he instantly released her, not wanting to add to the awkwardness between them. But constant reassurance didn’t seem to help, and he was only too aware who had created most of the awkwardness between them. The man with the big mouth.
“Have fun with your family,” she said. Then, without another word, she lifted a hand and ran away.
Leaving him to wish he knew a way to solve things. And wishing that Eric Churchill would have the sense to stay away.
Her Saturday, which had begun so poorly, seemed a predictor for the rest of the day.
People who refused to be contacted. Marketing budgets that refused to add up.
Aunty Marion was sick and unable to have visitors.
Even Harriet was proving hard to reach, finally texting back to say she was with Martin Roberts on a bushwalk to Pigeon House Mountain—like EJ knew who he was or where that was—and would be out of mobile phone coverage for most of the day.
Humph. She rolled her eyes at herself. Way to go with the assistant who believed in having time off on the weekends.
Added to all this was a steady flow of Gwen texts that only added to EJ’s guilt.
Not that EJ should feel like the guilty one.
That was all on Gwen. But when Gwen texted for the third time asking why EJ hadn’t responded, she knew she’d finally have to bite the bullet and tell her what she’d done. Ignoring her wasn’t helping anything.
“Sorry, been busy today,” she typed.
Delaying was wise. Because how could she say what she really felt?
Especially to this woman who EJ had hoped would help smooth the way for Dream Match.
Saying something like Actually, I didn’t want Eric reaching me, and I feel like my privacy has been invaded, so I’m not responding to his message would sure go well. Not.
More than that, the feeling that people didn’t respect her enough to observe her personal boundaries was what really hurt.
She’d worked so hard for so long to reach this point, to be considered a businesswoman deserving respect, and the fact that people didn’t seem to care enough not to cross those lines kind of hurt.
Even Jordan, well intentioned as he was, didn’t seem to have a clue.
Her heart chafed. How could he imply she wasn’t pretty—again? Didn’t he know just how fragile a woman’s ego was?
He might say he was sorry, and tried to make amends with his “you’re really pretty” comment, but she could tell he didn’t mean it.
She pressed her lips together as memories flashed of that high school party where she’d been made to feel second-rate, ugly, dressed in secondhand clothes.
People eyeing her, whispering about her, while she desperately tried to fit in.
All the while knowing she would never be one of the cool kids, one of the populars, but instead the nerdy, ultrasmart, Jesus-freak geek.
And yes, she knew that made her like a walking cliché of every high school movie ever, but it didn’t change the fact that here, all these years later, she still felt that way.
Jordan hadn’t been invited to the party of her nightmares, so he would never know just how much her soul had been branded by that incident, how much his comments about her looks resonated within.
Words weren’t like water you could wash off.
They had the power to brand forever. And words about someone’s looks, which were so closely tied to one’s identity, seemed to sting the worst. Hence why Dream Match didn’t emphasise looks with its no photo policy, at least to begin with, forcing people to really get to know each other.
She studied herself in the mirror. The sharp angles of her haircut weren’t as defined as before, so she probably needed to revisit the hairdresser. And was that—she peered closer—another grey hair? She pulled it out. No way was she going to look a second older than she was.
Another shift in the looking glass showed a red blemish, her usual precursor to a pimple. Great. Grey hair and pimples? She couldn’t win.
A knock came at the door. Huh. Had Jordan decided to chase her down and apologise? Well, it was only right he did. She attached a pimple patch over the blemish and hurried to the door. Jordan had seen her looking worse, so it wouldn’t matter.
But when she peered through the apartment door’s peephole, she spied a deliveryman holding flowers. He’d sent flowers? Okay then. A real apology. She smiled. Good. She flung the door open.
“Miss Bennett?” The deliveryman jumped as Charlie scooted by. “Whoa. That was a cat.”
“It’s fine. Yes, I’m EJ Bennett.”
The man shifted the giant bouquet and handed her an envelope. She accepted it, then gestured for him to come inside and place the flowers on the dining table. “Thanks.”
Impatience bit to read the message. Especially as, now that she thought about it, sending apology flowers wasn’t Jordan’s style. He’d be much more likely to call in person and say it outright. So who had sent them?
After he fussed a moment, ensuring they were placed just right, he glanced out the window, whistling. “Great view.”
“Yes.” She smiled, feeling the need to explain. “My aunt’s place. Her parents did well choosing to live here decades ago.”
He nodded, lingering. Was she supposed to tip him?
She drew out a ten-dollar note, apologised that it wasn’t more, but he shrugged and said it was fine, then wished her a good day.
As soon as he left, she ripped open the envelope, pulled out the card with its Ken Done print of Sydney Harbour on the front. Who had sent it? This didn’t seem like Jordan’s handiwork.
I hope these flowers brighten your day.
Huh. That was sweet. And unexpected.
But not as unexpected as the stomach-clenching name at the bottom.
The name that wasn’t Jordan’s. It wasn’t Dean or Lionel either.
It was, in fact, someone who she didn’t think knew where she lived.
How had he gotten her address? Was it Gwen—again?
The fact that he had was actually kind of unnerving. And exciting.
Eric Churchill.