Chapter Seventeen #2
The sharply dressed woman stares at me like I’ve just rolled around in a pile of cow poop.
And honestly, I kind of feel like that, too.
My God, it just hits me that I’m not even wearing panties.
No wonder I’ve been plagued by an extra dollop of vulnerability.
Great, just great. Shifting around, I paste on my most professional smile that says I’m most definitely wearing all items of underwear.
“Let me check.” She taps on her computer, then jots down something on a piece of paper and hands it to me. “Here you go.”
“Thank you.” I take the paper and run as quickly as I can. I’m getting out of here. I’m heading home so I can put on my panties and regroup.
I grab one of the few remaining economy seats and board two hours later after running through security and immigration. The airline puts me next to a lavatory, but I don’t care. I just want the plane to take off. And then go home. A good night’s sleep in my own bed should—
Can’t.
I don’t have a home.
It burned down.
My shoulders round under the sudden weight of everything.
I bury my face in my hands as tears gather in my eyes.
How could my life have spiraled out of control so fast?
I did everything right. Well, except for sleeping with my boss, but surely that isn’t the kind of mistake that completely ruins your life, is it?
I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my teeth to control my emotions. I’m not having a breakdown in public. Given my luck, it’ll go viral, and if Rhys doesn’t fire me, Kaitlyn will.
Mom’s bucket list, the one I found after the funeral, said that she wanted to see me fulfilled and happy because every woman deserves love and joy. She feared I might shun the whole idea of love after witnessing what happened between her and Trevor.
And I worked hard, so she could see me find a soul mate and live happily ever after with a good career and financial stability. But now—
“Damn it,” I mutter. I jam my forehead against my fist. Damn Jeffrey. Damn my lack of impulse control last night. Should’ve stayed strong, had better sense and not screwed Rhys’s brains out—even if he was amazing…
Now I’m out of love and probably out a stable job and nice salary as well. Talk about screwing myself over. If Mom were here now, she’d just pat my back, like she always did when she knew I’d messed up and needed some silent support. I was usually already doing a great job beating myself up.
The guy in the window seat has faded jeans, a neck tat and mostly gray hair that’s been subdued into a ragged ponytail.
He glances over and makes a sympathetic noise.
“Yo, sister, don’t be so hard on yourself.
Getting robbed on a trip”—he shrugs—“shit happens. That’s why God gave us the Second Amendment. ”
I lift my head and stare, unsure what he means. Do I look that bad? And didn’t God give commandments, not amendments?
I open my mouth to say that I haven’t been robbed and “thou shalt not steal” isn’t the second commandment, anyway, but he’s quicker.
“Shoot ’em dead and they can’t steal anymore.” He makes a pistol with his hand and mimes pulling the trigger, recoil and all.
My mind goes blank. I blink several times at him. I don’t speak English anymore. Je suis francais, I tell myself, refusing to process anything beyond the need to go home and figure out what to do about Rhys and my job.
Once the plane takes off, I lean back in my seat and close my eyes. My stomach starts to ache, likely from stress and anxiety. I rub my belly, then stop as a sudden chill rattles through me.
Am I going to get pregnant?
We didn’t use a condom. Any of the times. An acidic lump lodges in my throat. Oh, no, no, no… I swallow, bracing the back of my skull against the headrest, squeezing my eyes shut.
It’ll be okay. Better be okay. Has to be okay.
I concentrate on breathing slowly. I’m not repeating the mistake Mom made, getting pregnant with the wrong guy—and Rhys is definitely the wrong guy.
A great boss if you want to work hard and learn.
But a workaholic is not what I want. I want a man who can be there for me, make time for our family.
Someone who can make me and our children his top priority.
Rhys measures everything in terms of efficiency and ROI.
A wife and children are time sucks with negative return, always in the way of another important, profitable deal.
Stop thinking about being Rhys’s wife. That’ll never happen, even if I did sleep with him. It was just the one time.
I exhale slowly. This isn’t like three years ago, when I had no experience or skills.
I pull out my phone and start jotting down all my newly acquired qualifications and qualities to include in my résumé, just in case. Working for someone as particular, grumpy and difficult to please as Rhys should count for something.
Besides, the universe probably feels really bad for me. It’ll be kinder. I just can’t imagine my life becoming any worse than it did already.
The flight arrives early and lands so smoothly that I barely even realize we hit the ground. No line at immigration and customs, either.
I hand my passport to a flint-eyed officer with a flat mouth. Probably just wants to look stern to assert his authority. He glances at it, then says, “Are you telling me your name is Rhys Kingswood?”
What? Oh my God! Why do I have Rhys’s passport? I take the passport back and stare at the main page. Yup, it’s him, with the barest hint of smile on his perfect face. His blue eyes are shockingly piercing—if the agent were female, she might’ve clutched her chest, whimpering, “Be still my heart.”
How can he look this good in what is basically a boring ID photo?
And did I have his passport all this time? But no, Japanese immigration didn’t bat an eye when they stamped my passport, and they would’ve said something.
Okay, first things first. I turn my attention back to the more pressing matter.
“That’s my boss. Sorry. I’m his assistant.
” I keep my words measured, trying to stay calm.
“I was carrying it for him because, you know, he doesn’t carry a lot of his own stuff.
That kind of boss.” Whoosh, under the bus you go, Rhys!
But he isn’t here and I need to get out of this.
I rummage through my purse until I find another passport and check it. Yes, definitely mine, with a photo that’s marginally more serviceable than the one on my driver’s license. “Here. Sorry about the mix-up.”
The agent takes it and studies the photo and me. I paste on a smile that hopefully looks friendly and harmless.
“There’s no way this is you,” he says finally.
The smile slips. “Excuse me?”
He flips the passport and shows me the photo. “See this?”
“Yeah. Me.”
“No. Not you.” His eyes move up and down, from my head to neck, then back.
“But it is! Maxine Julianna Norman!”
“You look nothing like this photo.” His eyes—and attitude—say, Stop lying, you know you’re not good looking enough. “Step over here, please.”