Chapter 3 Teardrops on My Giraffe
Ren
Present
Iam not the kind of person to get wasted and make a scene at a work event over a guy. That is not me.
But apparently, I am the kind of person who gets wasted at a work event, then—out of fear of making a scene—hides in the giraffe barn crying in a pile of straw over a guy.
I’m learning a lot about myself tonight. Including that I am the other woman.
Silly me thinking I was about to get engaged. Of course, Dr. Lewis isn’t going to propose, because he’s already married to a perfectly pleasant, beautiful woman who probably has no idea what a raging dickwad her husband is.
He came in my mouth at the same time he told her he loved her. Is that psychopathy? Sociopathy? At the very least, it’s some sort of -pathy, right?
I sob into a cloth napkin that I swiped off a table on my way out of the gala.
Looking up at the sound of rustling, I find Belinda’s face above her stall. Her giant brown eyes peer down at me, unamused, her thick eyelashes flapping as she sleepily opens and closes them.
“I know, I’m pathetic.” I sigh, trying not to burst into tears again.
Oblivious to my pain, Belinda does nothing but stare while her long black tongue flicks out and swirls around her muzzle to pick her nose as I blow mine again.
“Are you mocking me?” I query with a sad laugh. She tilts her head at the end of her long, dappled neck, and I huff. “You can’t judge me when Bertrand would never treat you like this.”
Despite the fact that giraffes don’t form long-term mating pairs in the wild, Bertrand doesn’t seem to have eyes for anyone else.
Must be nice.
I drunkenly wonder how long I could live in the giraffe habitat.
I could hide in piles of hay until I sneak outside with them in the morning.
The heating lamps they put in here during the winter make the temperature quite nice.
Even though they’re not supposed to, kids are always throwing their snacks into the enclosure.
Could I live off discarded Teddy Grahams and french fries?
You know, getting fired might not be that bad if it means I never have to see Lewis again, because if I stay in fundraising, I definitely will.
Donors love him. He’s handsome, intelligent, and charming as hell, a powerful combination.
I babble out loud to Belinda, “Oh, and don’t forget to add married to that list—”
The barn door opens a crack, and I freeze before dropping back like a reclining chair. I must have forgotten to lock it behind me; I only had a key so we could store some extra chairs in here for the gala.
I’m expecting to hear Eliana or Charles call my name, but instead I’m met with hushed laughter and a woman’s giggling voice whispering, “And I thought we’d had sex everywhere.”
Oh my god.
I poke my head up a little to see a couple stumbling in, his hands wrapped around her waist and hers cupping his face.
“Can’t have you getting bored now, can we, a chuisle?” the man responds, ending his question with a husky word that doesn’t sound like English.
His dark dirty-blond hair is still styled neatly to match his tuxedo, but her auburn hair is mussed, bobby pins sliding out of place and waves ruffled. I realize why when he pushes her against a wall and shoves his hand into the back of her hair for a passionate, hungry kiss.
My heart races as I waffle on what to do. Do I stay quiet and hope they don’t notice me? What if I try to slip out and get caught? Do I say something?
What would I even say? Oh, hey, before you get down to business, I should let you know it isn’t only giraffes in here.
My panic rises as the longer I wait, the weirder it will ultimately be. Will they think I stayed quiet to watch? Every option is equally mortifying.
But when she reaches for his waistband and he slides the straps of her dress down her shoulders, I am propelled into action.
“Uh . . . um . . . Hi?” They don’t hear me. I clear my throat, scratchy from crying, and try again. “Hi, hello.”
This time, there’s no doubt they hear me.
She flattens against the wall with a slight gasp, and he immediately angles himself between her and my voice.
He doesn’t spot me right away, sunken into the straw as I am.
I push to my feet and his head swivels toward the movement, hand shooting under his jacket to the back of his waistband.
When he sees I’m the person who spoke, he visibly relaxes and unwinds his hand.
I have the crazy thought he was reaching for a gun, because isn’t that always how they do it in the movies?
But I quickly brush off the notion as my tendency to catastrophize.
It’s much more likely I’m overdramatizing the situation than that this man brought a gun to a holiday zoo gala . . . right?
“I don’t think guests are allowed in here.
I, um, would be happy to guide you back to the festivities,” I offer, trying to be diplomatic and polite since they probably paid upward of eight grand to be here tonight.
Honestly, for that price, they should be able to fuck in any animal exhibit they want.
I almost release a delirious laugh at the thought of these black-tie events turning into an orgy across the whole zoo.
I suck it back down and paint a smile on my face that hopefully says I have a completely valid and professional reason for being here, not please ignore the snot, and by the way, I wasn’t talking to myself. I was talking to a giraffe.
“Right, of course,” the woman gushes apologetically. “I’m not quite sure how we stumbled in here.”
“I know exactly why I came in here,” the man says under his breath with a small smirk, probably thinking I can’t hear him, and she tries to inconspicuously nudge him in the ribs.
The woman takes the man’s hand and pulls them toward the exit, while I go to the stack of extra foldable chairs and grab one, pretending that was the reason I was here all along.
“Enjoy the rest of your night.” My professional facade is betrayed by a wobble in my voice. She stops and turns around.
She pauses and really looks at me. God, I can’t imagine the mess she sees. I pray my blonde hair hides the hay that is inevitably sticking out and that my waterproof mascara hasn’t let me down.
“Are you okay?” she asks genuinely, tilting her head in concern.
I wave my hand dismissively. “Must be allergies. Hay fever, right?” I force a wholly unconvincing laugh. Her brows only furrow more.
“I don’t think that’s it.” She trails off, prompting me to come clean.
It’s extremely unprofessional, but hey, I already caught them trying to have sex in the giraffe barn. My self-restraint is at an all-time low, and I blurt out, “I thought my boyfriend was going to propose tonight, but instead I found out he’s married.”
“God, what an asshole.” Harlow, as she introduced herself, tuts and shakes her head once I finish telling them about Dr. Lewis.
“A real piece of shit,” Cash, her husband, emphasizes.
“Come by the Fox’s Den anytime”—Harlow squeezes my arm, referring to the Irish pub they own—“and we will plot his demise. Drinks are on us,” she promises, and I can’t help but laugh.
“That sounds great.”
“Good, see you there.” She smiles, and there’s something fearless and powerful about it, like she can’t wait to make Dr. Lewis pay and isn’t at all concerned about the consequences.
She wasn’t serious though . . . was she?