Just Another Saturday
Maddox
Delaney Sinclair had been upstairs for maybe ten minutes when the building's main door swung open, and I heard the click of heels on tile.
I glanced up to see two women – a brunette and a blonde – crossing the lobby in fitted dresses and high heels, each carrying a glossy gift bag stuffed with colorful tissue paper. They were laughing and chatting about who knew what.
As the women crossed the lobby, I buttoned my jacket over the dirt-stained shirt and looked back to my phone. I was just about to hit send on a text when the clicking abruptly stopped.
A split-second later, the chatting stopped, too.
I didn't bother looking up. If I was lucky, they'd keep walking.
And if I wasn't?
Well, it would be just another Saturday, wouldn't it?
In a loud stage-whisper, one of them said, "Oh, my God. Do you know who that is?"
The second voice replied, "Oh, please. Like I wouldn't?"
The first one asked, "What's he doing here?" She said "here," like I'd been caught fondling tomatoes in the produce aisle.
The funny thing was, maybe ninety percent of people didn't recognize me at all, whether because they didn't live on the internet or just had better things to do. But the other ten percent? Yeah, they more than made up for it.
The script called for me to stop whatever I was doing and look their way – maybe pissed off, maybe curious, but definitely engaged.
I didn't bother.
I didn't do my own shopping. I didn't fondle produce. And I sure as hell didn't need commentary from two women who were probably moments away from pulling out their phones for selfies.
Sooner or later, they'd go one of two routes. They'd either want to slap me or fuck me. Possibly both.
After months of high drama, I'd seen it all.
When the clicking started back up, I kept my eyes trained on my phone and waited for the inevitable.
Sure enough, two sets of heels appeared directly in my line of sight as one of the women announced, "You're Maddox McGuiness."
No shit.
Slowly, I looked up. "And…?"
It was the blonde. "And…well…I can't decide if I should be annoyed or impressed."
Next to her, the brunette gave me a lingering once-over before murmuring, "I know which one I am."
When the blonde shot her a dirty look, the brunette said with a shrug, "Hey, I've got eyes, don't I?"
The blonde frowned. "Well, you should have a brain."
"Hey, we can't all hate him," the brunette said. "And besides, everyone knows that Sloane Hayworth's a total nightmare. Do you know, she's on her third assistant this year?"
But the blonde wasn't having it. "Yeah, well maybe you'd be a nightmare, too, if you were left standing at the altar." Her gaze shifted to me, and her voice rose. "After your so-called groom ditched you in front of five hundred guests."
Fuck.
Still, like a good villain, I summoned up a smirk. "Six hundred."
She blinked. "What?"
I leaned back on the sofa. "Hey, numbers matter."
She was glaring now. "You act like you're proud of it."
I wasn't proud. But I didn't regret it. Some might say it was the smartest decision of my life.
And others?
Well, the blonde was a good example of that.
When I made no reply, she clicked closer to say, "She cried for weeks, you know."
I did know. And why? Because Sloane had done most of her crying publicly on every low-rent gossip show that would have her. Months later, she was still crying – except now she'd moved on to hinting that the truth was uglier than anyone imagined.
Technically, this was true – just not in the way she made it sound.
Oddly enough, none of this had actually damaged my reputation.
It had completed it.
Even before I'd walked out of that church, people thought I was difficult.
Volatile.
Dangerous.
Leaving Sloane standing at the altar hadn't changed the narrative. But it had turned it into prime-time entertainment, especially here in Chicago, where the family business had its roots.
Some might say the notoriety was the price of growing up in a family empire built on curated perfection.
But me?
I thought it was complete bullshit.
As for my family, they'd handled the wedding debacle the same way they handled everything – strategically with excellent PR. Within hours, they'd released a polished little statement about "respecting everyone's privacy during a difficult time," while quietly scrubbing me from the company website.
Like that was a punishment.
I'd been begging them to remove me for years.
I was tired of the headlines, and living life for an audience wasn't my style.
In front of me, the blonde gave a little stomp of her heel. "Don't you even care?"
I scoffed. "Why should I? You care enough for both of us."
The blonde stared like I'd just confessed to stealing candy from kids. "Wow." Her jaw clenched. "You really are exactly like people say."
People said a lot of things. Only half of them were true.
And the other half?
Well, those depended on who was telling the story.
I replied, "Good."
Her brow wrinkled. "Good how?"
I smirked. "No false advertising."
This made her sputter. "Are you freaking enjoying this?"
The answer was complicated. In the beginning, I just ignored the drama and waited for it to go away. But lately, I'd been leaning into it, figuring that if people were determined to cast me as the villain, I might as well enjoy the role.
She gave a dramatic sigh. "Well?"
I shrugged. "I'm still deciding."
With an epic eyeroll, she looked at her friend, only to gasp at what she saw. "Oh, my God, Megan. Are you seriously taking a selfie?"
Yes.
Yes, she was.
Megan said, "Why shouldn't I? No one will believe it if I don't." She turned to me with a sly smile. "I'm free for dinner in case you're wondering."
The blonde looked ready to whack her with the gift bag. "You are not! We've got that party."
Megan waved it off. "So go without me."
The blonde's eyes narrowed. "Oh, yeah? Well, maybe you should go without me."
Megan's expression soured. "And what would you be doing?"
The blonde's gaze slid in my direction. "I dunno…maybe…talking or something." She said it like "talking" involved significantly fewer clothes.
Great.
A hate-fuck.
Just what I always wanted.
Megan glanced toward the elevator. "But we're already here. We can't cancel now." With her free hand, she gestured toward the ceiling. "They rented the penthouse and everything. Plus your cousin flew in from Houston."
"So?" the blonde said. "She'll get over it."
I had to say it. "Now that's funny."
The blonde whirled to face me. "What?"
I gave her a sharp look. "Abandoning plans only counts when I do it. Is that right?"
She looked genuinely offended. "No. A stupid engagement party isn't the same as bailing on your own wedding."
Megan's jaw dropped. "Stupid? Seriously? I helped plan this party."
"So?" the blonde said. "You were willing to bail, too." She gave a toss of her hair. "So maybe your party planning needs work."
They were still bickering when the building's main door opened and a uniformed courier stepped inside with a garment bag hooked over his shoulder. When he spotted us, he called out, "Delivery for Mr. McGuiness."
I stood and motioned him forward. As he headed my way, I looked to the women and asked, "We done here?"
The blonde cocked a hip. "I'm not done."
"Me neither," Megan said. "And just so you know, the party ends at eleven." She leaned toward me. "Maybe we could grab a drink later?"
The blonde whirled toward her friend. "Megan!"
Megan snorted. "What? A little drink never hurt anyone."
"Oh, please," the blonde said. "Tell that to Bethany. You remember Vegas, right?"
"What I remember," Megan said, "is you disappearing with a tattoo artist named Spider."
"Yeah…well…" The blonde hitched a thumb in my direction. "He was still nicer than this guy."
Silently, I stepped around the two women and reached for my wallet. I flipped it open, pulled out a nice tip, and handed it to the courier as he handed me the garment bag containing a clean shirt.
When I looked back at the women, they were both eyeing me like they were ready for round two.
I wasn't. Fuck it.
I gave them a half-salute and turned away, heading toward the elevators. I wouldn't be going up. I'd be going down to the basement – and then, into the attached parking garage so I could change in my car.
Undignified?
Definitely.
Still, it was better than putting on a show.
By the time I was done, they'd be gone, and I'd be ready, because dinner with Delaney Sinclair was most definitely still on the menu.