20. Twenty
“Nice shindig.” Devin leans against the railing beside me. He wears a tuxedo t-shirt, jeans, Converse, and an amused expression, taking in what’s left of my dying party. “Why are you hiding over here?”
I don’t answer. I’m parked on the fencing at the pool’s edge, near my study, where I can peek at Rowan’s driveway.
It’s nearly midnight. She’s still not home. Though her texts have been vaguely reassuring, I’m worried.
Frustration plays a close second. Something must be wrong for her to leave so quickly and not be here by now. I wish she’d get over the anti-damsel-in-distress thing and ask for my help. Or, at least, tell me what’s going on. I reread her texts. She might as well be giving me her forced smile, shields up.
“You’ve been watching for her all night,” Devin says. “She’s not coming.”
“I don’t care about the party,” I say into my whiskey before gulping it down.
Rephrase—I don’t care about the party now.
Earlier, I did. I bothered the hell out of the caterers and decorators, making sure everything was just right. I added her favorite chardonnay to the menu at the last minute. I had the mini-basketball court turned into a dance floor. And remembering how much Rowan liked the twinkling lights at the oyster roast, I had the decorators add them everywhere—draping the trees, the railings, and the arbor over the outdoor kitchen.
I imagined her showing up, looking fucking amazing. She’d be nervous at first—parties aren’t her thing. But I’d stay by her side, loosen her up with wine and my quick charm, and introduce her to all the important people in my life she hasn’t met yet. My friends. My agent and editors. Even my parents. I imagined whispering in her ear and making her laugh over my father’s tipsy ramblings about grocery prices these days and my mom’s uncanny ability to find fault with the food. We’d take a bet on how early they’d leave—whether it’d be because of Dad’s tipsiness or Mom’s unease driving at night. They left by nine for a new reason—Mom’s designer heels hurting her feet. Maybe Rowan would’ve guessed it.
I’d sign books and divvy out door prizes while she’d linger with the neighbors and Sara, and I’d catch her eye from afar occasionally. She’d smile, her gorgeous blue eyes twinkling under the lights, and I’d make every excuse to get back to her.
She’d meet my agent, Lynn, and hear her gush about my latest pages. “It’s your best work yet,” she said before explaining everyone’s relief. “The publisher is already talking about renewing your contract. The Other Us is exceeding expectations. Your writing hiatus worked for you… but never do it again.”
My idiot friends would be on their best behavior, partly because of their wives but also because I forewarned them to behave. They’d warm up to Rowan just like I have, and she’d laugh over their best and worst stories about me.
I’d get The Hurricanes to play “November Rain” and lure her to the dance floor, where she’d slip her arms around my neck and hold on to me a little easier than last time.
At the night’s end, she’d linger, and at the right moment, I’d tell her—
“Tell her what?” Devin chimes into my thoughts.
It’s the only part I haven’t figured out yet. It’d be easy to tell her how I feel—at my keyboard, where I transform pivotal moments like this into fucking art that has my heroine falling into her lover’s arms.
But this is Rowan. Romance doesn’t work. Plans don’t work—she’s not even here. Even if she were, what would I say?
“Tell her the truth. Tell her you’re falling for her.” Devin cocks his brow at me. “And just go with it, even when it’s hard.”
I peek at Rowan’s empty driveway. “It’s already too hard. She’s hellbent on marrying the world’s worst fiancé and convinced she’s not my type.”
“Change her mind, dumbass. Or give up and go back to business as usual.” He motions to a newbie on my editing team, a twenty-something redhead in a skin-tight black dress. She catches my eyes and nibbles her bottom lip—the same come-hither look she’s been giving me all night.
“If you can go back to business as usual. Can you?”
“Of course. It is business as usual. Rowan’s a no-show and off-limits, anyway.”
“Prove it… Incoming.”
The redhead beelines toward me as if making eye contact was an invitation. Pursing her lips and watching me over the tops of her eyes, she looks determined. Sexy, too. Definitely your type, I imagine Rowan saying.
I check my phone. Nothing. I lean to see Rowan’s driveway. Nothing. Only a few guests linger over half-finished cocktails, and the staff is already cleaning up. My best hopes for tonight are over.
The redhead arrives with two whiskies. I down the one in my hand and accept hers. Her sparkly fingernails graze my hand as she gives it to me. “Mind if I join you?”
I give her a once-over, catching the way she shimmers—her dress, her eyes, her glossy lips. “If you want.”
Her lips curl. She leans next to me, her thigh brushing against my hand. “Should we talk about your books and how much I love them? Your party? The weather?”
“No. None of that.”
“Good.” She tilts closer, practically begging me to look at her breasts, which I do, of course. Her hand falls on my thigh and squeezes. “I’ve exceeded my limit on chitchat for one night. How about you?”
“I don’t do chitchat.”
She laughs, though I’m not kidding. Her fingertips dance along my inner leg. “What do you like to do?”
A minute later, she follows me inside.
Though I have a dozen rooms in my house, I take her to the downstairs guest bathroom. She hops up on the sink and sets a condom on the counter beside her ass.
Her dainty arms drape over my shoulders. Her red lips hover close to mine, daring me to kiss her.
I want to. To forget this night and put my feelings for Rowan in a discard pile of shit-stupid ideas. She doesn’t want me, so why not feel better with someone who does?
When I hesitate, she tugs down her sleeveless dress, revealing the lacy get-up pushing her breasts together. Come on, Jack.
With my hands clamped to the counter on either side of her, I still do nothing. I only loiter, close but not touching, taking her in but not taking her.
She wriggles out of the bra next, letting me see her, and I wonder how far I can take this without doing a damn thing.
Her legs spread wide, inviting me in. She goes for a kiss, but I recoil.
“Playing hard to get?” Her whisper dances over my lips, tickling me. Then, her hand travels slowly over my chest, tugs at my belt, and slips over me.
We’re both surprised at what she discovers. This woman does nothing for me.
“Sorry, honey. Too many whiskies.”
“Too bad.” She slumps, pulling her bra up. I help her from her perch. She puts herself back together, not hiding her irritation. Then, she leaves. And I feel like shit for all sorts of reasons.
I exit the bathroom and stagger down the hall into the open kitchen. Devin sits cross-legged in the center of the kitchen island, shaking his head at me. “So, not business as usual?”
“Fuck off.”
If this were a novel, this would be the lightbulb moment when the hero realizes his dead brother is right. Maybe I am falling for her. The evidence is there, whether I want to admit it or not.
I don’t.
I don’t see the redhead again. The remaining guests say their goodbyes. The staff finish their work and leave.
Finally, alone, I shed my jacket and tie, kick off my shoes, and get another drink. Irritated, restless, and feeling the alcohol, I grab my laptop and carry it to a table outside.
But thinking of what I can’t do resurrects my writer’s block. I can’t write anything.
I smash my whiskey glass on the concrete. Breaking glass sounds like strange music, especially as the shards clink and ping against the floor. I grab a wine bottle from another table and break that, too.
Broken glass slithers into the bottom of my foot. Another lightbulb moment—this is a bad idea. Blood dots the pavement underneath. I’m stupid-drunk.
So, when I hear my name, I think it’s my imagination.
Hearing it again, I catch a tremor in her voice. Something’s wrong.
Turning scrapes the glass deeper into my skin, but I don’t care. She’s here. And drunk as I am, I know she needs me.