Chapter 36
Troy
M onica stayed quiet as I practically pleaded with her to stay. I should have seen this coming, but I kept telling myself I had time. Time to win her back or make things right. I took for granted that she was just a few feet away from me every single day, giving me so many opportunities to fight for her, and I didn’t. Now, my time was up as her resignation letter sat in stark white against the dark oak of my desk.
I had seen this play out with my personal assistants in the past. I should be used to the folded paper delivered in a neat envelope with their professional sounding words thanking me for the opportunity, but it was time to move on. They made my job easy by saving me from breaking their hearts any more than I already had and leaving on their own accord when I couldn’t give them what they wanted. But now, it felt like my heart was breaking.
I didn’t know what else I could say as she stood before me, making me go insane just wondering what she was thinking. If my words had been enough. I knew explaining the situation to Monica would be ridiculously unbelievable. I couldn’t blame her for not buying what seemed like a fabricated story, but toward the end of my panicked delivery, she seemed to show a sliver of empathy.
Offering a raise was probably a desperate attempt, and one I knew didn’t interest her in the slightest. But it was better than me spitting out what I really wanted to say, which was that I was in love with her. I think I realized it a long time ago, but was too stubborn to believe it. Too set in my old ways to think I could ever change. But I was. I was in love with the woman before me, and it took her leaving me to make me realize it. Wasn’t that how it always went?
I didn’t want to tell her like this. I didn’t want her to think they were just words I was using in a desperate attempt to make her stay. She needed to believe them. I also was scared enough of this feeling of love, and that I hadn’t felt in so long, if ever, that her rejecting me would probably ruin me. So I kept quiet, just studying her face. Her beautiful face.
“Fine,” she said softly.
“What?” I asked, my disbelief making me think I heard her incorrectly.
“I’ll stay.”
She reached over and slid her resignation letter off my desk and folded it up before placing it in her purse. She could have ripped it up, but I felt that she wanted me to know that leaving was still an option. I nodded in understanding.
“Thank you,” I said, letting out a breath.
“It’s not for you,” she said. “At least, not the you I thought I knew. I’m staying because you do need me as your assistant. I don’t know what’s going on with you lately. I’ve also become pretty good at this job.”
“You have.” I laughed softly, knowing she was right.
She gave me a tight-lipped smile before walking out the door. Thankfully, not for the last time. But I knew I was on borrowed time. I had hurt her too much for her to actually stay here long-term. I knew she was doing me a favor to keep things running smoothly. Not because she cared about me, but because it was her job. She made it clear that line was no longer blurred.
I couldn’t risk losing her again. I picked up my phone from my desk and called the one person who would understand. The one person who knew our secret.
“Hello?” answered Erica.
“Hey, sis,” I said, straining to hear her through the noise on her end of the phone. “Bad time?”
“Oh, we’re just trying to get these ancient machines working, so we can get this damn paper out to the unwilling readers of New York.” I heard her banging on something that was most likely a printer.
“Sounds like it’s going really well over there.”
“Oh, just swell,” she said sarcastically. “Now, what’s up?”
“Can you meet for lunch?”
“What? Today?”
“Yes. Now.”
“It’s madness over here,” she groaned.
“Please. I need you.”
She sighed. “I can meet you in thirty.”
“Really?” I asked, hopeful.
“Really, but you owe me.”
“Okay. Meet me at Maison Pickel. My treat.”
“You bet your ass it is,” she said before hanging up.
I smiled as I slid my phone into the inner pocket of my jacket. If I didn’t have Erica, I didn’t know what I would do. I should have talked to her about everything sooner. Then maybe things wouldn’t have gotten so messy. She always had good advice, for being my younger sister. Even though she often didn’t follow her own.
I stood from my seat and stepped out of my office. I saw Monica grabbing her lunchbox from the side of her desk. I noticed she had started packing her lunch when we had ended things weeks ago. I knew she ate alone in the breakroom, probably to avoid me. I wondered if we could ever get back to some sort of normal where we could enjoy lunch together again. Although it would be very hard for me to refrain from my hand exploring underneath the table at our usual corner booth at Ocean Prime.
“I’m off to lunch,” I said, the words awkwardly falling off my tongue and matching the uncomfortable stance I held in front of her desk. I rocked on my heels waiting for her to say something. Anything.
“Okay,” she replied, completely disinterested.
“With Erica.” I clarified. I didn’t want her to think I was going out with Veronica or something. I knew her level of trust in me was practically at the bottom floor of this building.
“Great.” She stood and walked past me, down the hallway toward the breakroom.
I watched her go, her chestnut hair swishing down her back as she walked, looking professionally cute in a linen pantsuit. That was another thing that changed. Besides packed lunches, the tight skirts and low-cut blouses had ceased to be a part of her wardrobe. It didn’t make me want her any less. I would want her if she wore a potato sack.
Someone cleared their throat nearby. I looked up and saw Kathy looking at me curiously.
“Yes?” I asked, annoyed.
It was like she was always lurking around corners, but luckily for me, absolutely nothing was going on with Monica. At least, not anymore, so she had no leg to stand on. Other than the fact that I liked looking at my personal assistant.
“I’m off to a meeting with your father. Any message you’d like me to give him?” she asked.
Of course, she was. She had weekly meetings with him every Monday. I often wondered who she really worked for. She had more meetings with him than she did with me, her boss.
“No message.”
Other than, keep my ex-wife away from any and all family get-togethers . But that would be a discussion for another time. He wouldn’t be the issue. My mother, on the other hand, was a different story. I had to convince her that ship had sailed, and any attempt of trying to get us back together would fail miserably.
Kathy nodded and walked away, slipping back into her office. I rode the elevators down and hailed a cab. The restaurant wasn’t far from my building, but it had started to snow, and I had no desire to trudge through it.
I arrived at the restaurant five minutes later, tightening my coat as I made the short walk from the cab to the doors. This New York winter was relentless. It seemed to mimic my personal life perfectly. I wondered when the cold front would ever let up.
In the warmth of the restaurant, I asked the hostess for a table for two by the window. I didn’t like being in the snow, but I liked watching it fall. I ordered a glass of red wine to warm me up, and waited for Erica to get there. Halfway through my glass, she walked up to the table breathless, her face red.
“Did you run here?” I asked with amusement.
“Practically. The nearest subway station was like a block away.”
“Why didn’t you just take a cab?” I asked.
“Because the subway is cheaper.”
I shook my head at her. The daughter of the Bryce Gunner was penny-pinching. I was surprised she had even come to the beach house in the Bahamas. Part ownership was really the only thing she had ever accepted from my father. She probably flew coach, instead of using another of my father’s jets.
She signaled for the server as she took off her scarf.
“I’ll have what he’s having, please,” she said, nodding to my glass of wine.
“You haven’t even sat down yet and you need a drink.”
“This paper will be the death of me,” she said, sinking into the booth, exhausted.
“You could start your own damn paper if you ever accepted anyone’s help…”
“I don’t need yours, or anyone else’s money,” she said, waving me off. “Moving on. I’m not here to talk about me. You called me.”
I sighed and took a long sip of wine before getting into it.
“What’s going on, Troy?” she asked, sitting back against the booth and studying me.
“It’s Monica…”
“Duh. You both seem miserable, and no one will tell me what’s going on.”
I stayed quiet for a moment, not knowing how to say the words out loud.
“I’m in love with her,” I said, defeatedly.
“Oh, my gosh,” she squealed and clapped her hands together excitedly.
Other patrons of the restaurant looked over curiously. Our server stopped by with her glass of wine and I was tempted to order another one.
“Will you stop that?” I covered my face with my hand to avoid the embarrassment of my flushed cheeks showing.
“Troy! This is huge!” she exclaimed.
“It’s not a big deal. Plus, it doesn’t even matter. She doesn’t feel the same.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I screwed everything up…”
I went on to tell her all about the meeting with our father and how it made me question my relationship with Monica. I got scared of what I could lose, and pushed her away like a coward. Then I told her about Veronica and her relentlessness in getting me back. She couldn’t believe what Veronica had done at the gala, and was even more appalled at the stunt she pulled after our parents’ anniversary party.
“That woman deserves a slap across the face,” she muttered into her glass of wine. “I’d be happy to do it.” She grinned.
I let out a low laugh just thinking about it.
“I don’t need you to do that. But I do need you to tell me how to get Monica back.”
“Well, it won’t be easy,” she said. “You’ve made a real mess of things, big bro.”
“Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
“I’m just being honest. If I were her, I would be running for the hills.”
“Thanks for the encouragement,” I muttered.
“Let me think about it, okay? Monica is smart, which is one of the reasons I like her so much. She’s not going to be wooed by just any little gesture. You really hurt her.”
“I know,” I admitted softly.
“But we’ll think of something,” she said, grabbing my hand and giving it a squeeze.
“I feel like I’m running out of time…”
“You can’t rush it, Troy. She’s a freaking romance writer. You can’t out-romance her. We have to think of something good. Really good.”
She was right. Monica wrote about love. How was I ever going to win her back when she had probably read it all, or wrote it herself?