Chapter 45
FORTY-FIVE
I’ve received another email.
The first since I went scorched earth nearly three months ago. Staring at the subject line, I feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment.
NSFW—seriously. Don’t open this unless you’re alone.
Sure that someone, somewhere, got ahold of a video of Dean and I—because, let’s face it, we weren’t exactly careful—and that I’m about to be blackmailed, I click on the attachment and hold my breath.
It’s not a murky, poorly lit video of Dean and me in the cabana or even an audio clip of us in the private dining room at Davino’s.
It’s a very well lit, almost professional quality video of a naked, Allister violating what looks like a blow-up doll in a random, non-script hotel room.
Feeling a dizzying combination of revulsion and amusement, I close the clip and read the body of the message.
No need to involve the IRS. He’s never going to bother you again.
Reading and re-reading the message, I hit reply.
PLEASE JUST TELL ME WHO YOU ARE.
Like every time before, the email bounces back into my in-box as undeliverable.
“Ms. Blackwell,” Alice’s voice follows a polite knock on my office door, punching a hole in my concentration.
“Yes?” I say, tearing my gaze from the laptop screen in front of me.
“You have a call on line one,” she says. “I tried buzzing you but—”
“But I’ve muted my phone.” Giving her a flat, apologetic smile, I close my laptop and set it aside.
Since I returned home, my phone has been ringing nearly non-stop.
Mostly reporters, looking for a quote. Some sort of gossip or scandal to feed the rumor mill.
The more unscrupulous of the bunch have taken to calling my office, posing as clients or even family members.
We’ve had to set up a password. just to screen my calls.
“Do you know who it is?” Even as I ask it, I tell myself to get a grip.
It’s not him. It’s not Dean. It’s been months now and he hasn’t reached out and why would he?
He gave it his best shot and it didn’t work.
You didn’t buy into his lies so whatever he was hoping to gain from telling them will never be realized.
Men like Dean don’t linger. Once the well’s run dry, they move on. Take the hint and do the same.
“Curtis Horne,” she answers me with a flat, apologetic smile of her own. “He had the password… do you want me to tell him that you’re in a meeting?”
“No.” It comes out so clipped and brittle, the pitch of it makes me wince. “No…” Shaking my head, I try again but the second time isn’t much better. “I’ll take the call. Thank you.”
“Of course.” Giving me a quick head bob, she turns away, only to turn back again. “Oh—your father also called. He’d like to see you in his office.”
“Okay.” Lifting the receiver, I fight off the wave of irritation that threatens to overtake me. Lately, whenever he calls me into his office, it’s to discuss what happened—mainly to plead Paige’s case.
We need to reserve judgment, Melisandre. We’ll know soon enough if those texts are real, who sent them, and what their motivations were.
I know what he thinks.
He thinks it was Dean.
Dean who fabricated them.
Dean who sent them.
Dean who took advantage of me in my vulnerable state and manipulated me.
I don’t argue with him because he’s right.
We’ll know soon enough.
Pressing the blinking red light on my desk phone, I bring the receiver to my ear. “This is Millie.”
“Hey, Millie,” a deep, male voice says. “It’s Curt.
I hope you don’t mind me calling—Gwen gave me your password.
Kinda crazy that you need one of those but I guess after everything that’s happened…
” He stops rambling for a moment before clearing his throat.
“Anyway, I’ll just cut to the chase because I know you’re busy—I need a date. ”
For a second, I don’t know what to say.
“A date?” Looking up from my desk blotter and around my empty office like I’m looking for someone to explain it to me, I shake my head.
“I don’t understand.” Curtis Horne is one of the most sought after bachelors in Manhattan, has been for years now.
There’s no way in hell he needs a date. “Did my sister put you up to this?”
I’ll kill her.
I’ll fucking kill her.
“What?” Curt’s tone spikes with equal parts surprise and panic.
“No. I—” Giving up, he lets out a soft sigh, I hear the creak of a desk chair.
Like me, he’s undoubtedly at work in his high rise, corner office, diligently adding to his family’s insurmountable fortune.
“Look, I usually take Paige to these things but… to be honest, she’s radioactive right now and I don’t want to deal with the fallout of being seen with her. ”
“Okay.” For some reason, his pragmatic reasoning makes me feel better. Probably because he’s asking me out out of pure necessity and not pity. The fact that he called Paige radioactive didn’t hurt either. “Where?”
“Seriously?” He sounds surprised, like he didn’t expect me to say yes. “Wow—okay. Ummm, it’s the annual Veteran charity art gala. The one in Boston.”
I know it.
My parents go every year.
My father sips ridiculously expensive scotch while he watches my mother run around and buy anything and everything that tickles her fancy.
“That’s tonight,” I say with a frown. My mother asked me to attend with her and my father last week and I turned her down. Facing a room full of people—the majority of who were at my wedding—alone, is not my idea of a good time.
“I know it’s short notice,” he says, words bunched together like he’s pushing them out of his mouth in a rush. “I just don’t know who else to ask. Gwen said—”
“So my sister did put you up to this?”
“No,” he insists again. “She just mentioned that you might be ready to get back out there after—”
“After my rebound fling with the tattooed bartender?” I don’t know what I’m doing.
Why I’m making this so difficult. I should be grateful, shouldn’t I?
After everything that’s happened and everything I did, I should be grateful that someone like Curtis Horne doesn’t think I’m just as radioactive as my skanky, narcissistic cousin. I should be grateful but I’m not.
What I am is angry.
“Millie…” He says my name softly, almost like he feels sorry for me. “No one blames you for that. No one thinks any less of you. What happened wasn’t your fault.”
He’s wrong.
Everything that happened was my fault.
Dean didn’t force me into anything. He didn’t push me off the cliff.
I jumped.
And even knowing what I know now, after everything that happened and how everything played out, I’d do it again because jumping with Dean Mercer was the only time in my life I’ve ever felt like me—even if the landing killed me.
“I’ll fly in with my parents,” I tell him, before I can give myself a chance to think it through. Am I ready for this? Probably not, but there’s only one way to find out. “It’s being held at the Hawthorne Boston this year, correct?”
“Yeah—yes.” Curt stumbles over himself for a moment before he clears his throat again—something I’m coming to recognize as a nervous tic.
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Millie. This isn’t on Gwen,” he insists quietly.
“When I mentioned I didn’t have a date, she mentioned having dinner with you last night and that you seemed to be over…
everything that happened. Asking you was my idea. ”
We had a good time but we established from the start that it wasn’t a big deal…
“It’s fine,” I tell him, pressing my tone into a polite, pleasant cadence. “Gwen was right—I’m ready to get out and to put the whole episode behind me. Meet you in the hotel lobby at eight?”
“Yes.” Sounding relieved, I can practically hear Curt nod his head. “Eight sounds perfect. I’m looking forward to seeing you, Millie.”
“Mmm…” I make a non-committal sound in the back of my throat. “See you tonight,” I say, hanging up the phone before I burst into tears.