Chapter 9
KATE
“I have been sick to my stomach for days, thinking about what I did. The gorgeous woman—his fiancée or whatever—who came to see him needs to be told what happened.”
I’m hiding in the abandoned restroom stall at work, spilling my guts to Mel on the phone. It’s only my fourth day, but I don’t know how much longer I can work here.
Mel’s been crashing at Nikolai’s place, so I haven’t seen her. I can’t hold it in any longer that Mr. Bradshaw is engaged.
“But shouldn’t he be the one to come clean? You had no idea he was engaged when you met. Approach him later and demand that he tell her.” She is fired up about the news, and she’s usually the speak now, think later type.
I scoff, “Oh, right, so I can get fired for the second time in less than a week and have to search for a job again? My résumé is still out there, but every viable option doesn’t pay nearly enough for me to afford Dad’s care facility.”
Ugh, why don’t men wear engagement rings too?
Just another double standard, I guess. He’s free to screw around with unsuspecting females until the vows, but she’s already got his mark on her.
“Hmm, if you could find out a little more about the fiancée, maybe you could figure out if approaching her with an enormous apology and some kind of peace offering would help you not be labeled as some gold-digging psycho,” Mel says.
I hear the sound of a faucet in the background as she rinses someone’s hair.
“But what if she’s the type to say it was on purpose?
The coincidence of me getting hired the next day is what I can’t shake.
That seems suspicious, no matter how you slice it, like I stalked him at that bar just to get in good with the boss or something.
Either way, she’s engaged to a billionaire, and she looks like a supermodel.
I’m sleeping on my best friend’s couch, and I can’t afford my own apartment if I lose this job. I’m the one out in the cold here.”
I start to feel a little panicky when I realize that I am going to have to find another job. Why can’t I get out of this rut?
Mel offered for me to stay with her permanently, but she lives in a miniature studio, and we’ve tried to room together before. It’s much better for our friendship if we have separate residences.
“Okay, but she is with a cheating jerk billionaire, which isn’t the worst thing ever, but it still sucks for her that he’s like that.”
I sigh. “I know, Mel. Trust me, I feel like a shithead. I was literally screaming at the girl who homewrecked my relationship last week. I want to tell her—I do. I just want to do a little snooping first and see if she’s .
. . you know, a girl’s girl. Not the type to just jump to the defense of her man and blame me for it all.
” I stand up to go back to my job from hell.
“I don’t want to stay here, honestly, but I cannot afford to quit until I find something else. There’s just no way.”
“Of course not! You shouldn’t have to quit. I would do some digging on the girl to see what your next move should be, and then maybe you could request a transfer to another department. I don’t know. Don’t panic. It’ll all work out.”
Her plan sounds slightly better than hiding in a restroom stall to have a meltdown.
“Okay . . . thanks for listening to me vent.”
“Anytime, babe. Love you. Let’s get margs tonight.”
I mumble an agreement, tapping the End button. I push open the door to the stall, gasping at the unexpected sight of Becky from human resources.
“Becky! Wha . . . what are you doing in here?” I stammer out, forming a weak smile as my stomach twists.
She smiles widely, lipstick stuck on her teeth again. “Oh, I eat Chinese food almost every day, but I can’t process the gluten. I have a standing appointment in here at one fifteen.” She winks at me. “Everyone knows that, honey.”
“Well, I’m new.” I chuckle nervously. “I didn’t know.”
She shrugs, grin widening.
“So . . . I didn’t know Mr. Bradshaw was engaged.” I say.
Her eyes twinkle as she stares at me. I can tell right away what’s happening here—share the gossip with Becky, and maybe she won’t report me to whoever her boss is for what I did.
“Becky, girl . . . we should get lunch and talk about it! I would love to get your opinion on . . . some things.”
I smile as she nods enthusiastically.
“Yes! Let’s go Monday!” She claps her hands together, squeezing me in for a hug.
“Oh, um . . . sure. That works great for me.”
The door opens, and another woman enters. Becky winks at me, and we walk out together. Once we reach the hall leading toward my desk, she turns to smile at me.
“Okay, see you at lunch, Kate!”
What the hell did I just agree to?
Becky starts texting me at two a.m. on Friday night. The only reason I’m even awake is because I’ve been stressing out that she’s already reported the entire “incident,” and I’ll walk into work on Monday morning to face one of the following scenarios:
Shampoo-commercial girl accusing me of lying about what happened or ripping my hair out for sleeping with her fiancé and then me getting fired.
Mr. Bradshaw accusing me of lying and then me getting fired.
Human resources, spearheaded by Becky, conducting an investigation and then me getting fired.
Just me getting fired.
This is the first time in my life I can ever remember thinking that going into work, only to get fired, would be the best possible outcome of my day.
Becky
Kate, this is Becky. I just wanted to let you know I have all the dirt we could ever need! Can’t wait for our lunch date. xo
Kate
That’s great. I’ll see you at lunch.
Does she think she’s Gossip Girl?
I set my phone on the ground by Mel’s couch, where I’ve been sleeping. She has a tiny double bed, and she sleeps like a dead woman with every limb stretched out around her. The floor vibrates, and I groan as I pick up the phone.
Becky
I can get pretty much anyone to add me on Facebook. They just assume they know me from somewhere. It’s wild! I have almost 10,000 friends between my two accounts! You will not believe what I have to tell you. xo
Okay, I guess this is semi-great news, but if she doesn’t let me get some sleep, I will block her number.
The dawn finally breaks, and I literally go to the gym for the first time in ages to have something to do with my restless body. This weekend is going to be torture.
It’s barely nine thirty in the morning when my phone starts to ring. The caller ID shows an unknown number. It could be a nurse from Memory Care, so I answer it.
“Hello?”
“Is this Kate Dawson?” A woman’s scratchy voice comes through the speaker, followed by a cough. She has a thick French accent.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“This is Eloise. I’m Mr. Bradshaw’s personal chef.” She coughs again before continuing, “I’ve come down with something, and I can’t make it in today. Georginne gave me your number to call for a replacement.”
My throat dries up. There’s a moment of silence before I start to babble. “Oh! Okay, um . . . I’m sorry you’re sick. I, uh, do you usually cook three meals a day for him?”
“I make him lunch and dinner every day, except for Sundays. The kitchen is fully stocked to prepare pesto salmon and shrimp pasta with a sweet potato mash. It’s one of his favorites so I make enough for lunch and dinner.”
I try to formulate more words, but they won’t come. I survive on grilled cheese and wine. Sometimes, I forget that some of the adults of the world have menus that sound like they belong to a rich, old white lady living in London.
“Miss Dawson?”
“Call me Kate, please. I’ll take care of it, Eloise. Hope you feel better.”
“I should be good to resume work on Monday.”
Thank goodness.
“Okay. Good-bye.”
“Au revoir.”
I put the phone down before reaching a finger over to pet Speckles’s head. He’s hiding under the coffee table.
“I don’t have a clue where to find a chef suitable for Mr. Fancy Pants’s food.”
Mel’s busiest day at work is today, or I would ask her if she knew anyone who could cook.
“Now would be the time to have more friends.” I sigh as I pull up Google on my phone.
I type in pesto salmon and shrimp pasta with sweet potatoes, and a few recipes come up. They don’t look too complicated. It’s getting close to ten a.m., so if I’m going to have this ready by lunchtime, I’d better get moving.
I take a quick shower since I didn’t after the gym this morning.
My comfy jeans and plain vintage tee with an old surfboard on it seem like decent attire to cook in.
It’s one of the few outfits I was able to snag from my old apartment last night before I had to escape Stephen and Maddie’s make-out session.
After some hairspray and my very basic makeup routine, I’m ready to go. I pause at the door.
Do I need to wear what I would at the office?
I don’t have time to search through Mel’s stuff and find something clean, so screw it. If Mr. Bradshaw fires me today for dressing inappropriately, then I can avoid the dreaded lunch with Becky on Monday.
Fifteen minutes later, I pull my car into a guest parking spot outside his apartment building.
When I step inside the elevator, two girls get on right after me.
One is a short, cute redhead with unnaturally large breasts.
The other is her opposite—a skinny blonde at least six inches taller than me.
On the journey up, they chat about the party they were at last night in someone’s penthouse.
Oh no, surely not . . .
“You know he’s with another woman every weekend, but it doesn’t mean I’m not going for it,” the blonde says.
The redhead laughs as they get off on the eighth floor. I take a steadying breath as the elevator continues to take me up to the top.
You need the money. You need this job. You can’t afford to quit right now.
Him being a cheating, engaged scumbag is bad enough. Finding out I could potentially be one in a long line of weekend flings feels like adding salt to an open wound.