Chapter Twenty-Two

Jenna

After my weekend spent with Emmett, it’s back to reality. My eyes are only slightly puffy from my sob-fest last night, and thankfully Britt doesn’t seem to notice. I’ve been staring at my computer screen for the last hour, trying to work up the courage for what I know I need to do.

Slowly, my stomach churning, I dial the number that that prick Ronald left me at the bottom of all his relentless emails and letters. After months of refusing to dignify his offer with a response, I can’t deny the truth any longer. My little store is failing. It’s been two years and I’ve barely kept my head above water, let alone grown the Lit Apothecary into a successful business.

In another universe, I might keep fighting until my last dollar evaporates. But here and now, with a baby on the way, I have no choice but to grow up. I won’t watch my savings dwindle much lower, and I have to make the responsible decision and go back to my old unfulfilling-but-reliable job. My future family will need a steady income . . . no matter how much it hurts to give up the dream I’ve cherished for over a decade.

I tamp down my wounded pride and press the Call button.

“Baxter Books acquisitions department, this is Cheryl, how may I help you?” chirps a young female voice.

“Hi,” I reply, wishing I was doing literally anything else. Like maybe getting poked in the eye with a sharp stick. “Can I speak to Mr. Ronald Hollenbeck?”

“Who may I say is calling?” she asks.

“Jenna Porter. I want to talk to him about . . .” I swallow the knot in my throat. “Selling the Lit Apothecary.”

After a brief pause, she says, “I’ll transfer your call.”

“Thanks, Cheryl.” As miserable as I am, I can’t hold this against her.

“You’re very welcome. Have a nice day.” A click follows as she puts me on hold.

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” I mutter into the brief interval of empty static. I wonder if Cheryl even knows who I am. I don’t know which is worse—my pain being common knowledge at their office, or the thought that I might be just one insignificant drop in a sea of faceless deals.

Soon, a nasally male voice answers with, “Ronald Hollenbeck speaking.”

God, he sounds even more obnoxious than I imagined. I repeat my reason for the call, each word a fresh little stab in the gut. At least his tone isn’t too smug when he says, “I can set up a meeting as soon as tomorrow at nine. Does that time work for you?”

None of this bullshit works for me, but I guess it’s better to rip the bandage off as quickly as possible and get it over with. “Yes, I can do that,” I reply. I make a mental note to call Britt and ask her to watch the store . . . while I sell it out from under us. Fuck.

“Great,” Ronald says. “I’ll reserve a conference room for us to discuss the sales contract. Just stop by my secretary in the morning and she’ll direct you.”

“Okay, thanks. See you tomorrow.” I hang up and grab a pint of butter pecan ice cream from the freezer in the break room to try drowning my sorrows in sugar.

• • •

As I turn in to the parking lot the next morning, I realize that this is the same office building as the sperm bank. I got the address off Baxter’s website at the last minute, and I didn’t notice that the addresses were identical except for the suite number. But I’m in too much turmoil to care about the odd coincidence. I park and walk to the entrance, then pause, trying to will myself to step through those imposing glass doors.

God, I hate this. I don’t want it, I can’t . . .

I steel myself with monumental effort. There’s no other way. I have to make this sacrifice for my baby’s sake. I will not run away. I will not cry. Taking a deep, shaky breath, I walk inside to sell off a piece of my heart.

I take the elevator up to the top floor and greet Cheryl, who tells me that Ronald, some lawyers, and the CEO will meet me in conference room four. I go down the hallway she points toward and find it after only a few wrong turns. As I open the door, I scan the room, looking for a free seat while taking the measure of my negotiation opponents. A bunch of pasty old men, like I expected, except for—

My heart freezes solid. No. No fucking way.

At the head of the long, polished oak table sits Emmett.

I almost stumble backward out of my heels. This has to be some cruel joke. Emmett’s eyes have gone wide too. What’s he doing here? What the hell is going on?

Before I can speak or run like hell out of there or do anything, a jowly man with salt-and-pepper hair walks through the door behind me, blocking my escape route.

“Ah, Mrs. Porter, you’re here,” he says.

I spin around. “Uh . . .”

“I’m Ronald. It’s nice to finally meet you in person. I admit, you’re even prettier than your voice suggested!” He chuckles as if he said something incredibly clever.

I finally fight off my discombobulation enough to mumble, “It’s Miss, actually.”

“Really? I find that surprising. Anyway, let me introduce you to our fine legal team, and of course our CEO, Emmett Smith.” He gestures to a very surprised-looking Emmett.

Our CEO. No . . . this isn’t a nightmare. I don’t know how this is happening, but it’s real. After all the sweet days and passionate nights we’ve spent together, now I discover we’ve been mortal enemies the whole time. The father of my child—the man I’ve fallen in love with—runs the company that’s been trying to pick over the carcass of my fondest dream, and I somehow had no fucking idea. Am I an idiot? Am I insane?

Ronald waits for a second, then realizes I’m not going to respond and clears his throat. “Ah, we have a fine offer for you. We’re willing to offer you a very generous price.” One of the other men slides a sheaf of papers across the table. “Please let us know what you think.”

Numb, I stare blankly at the contract. The insultingly low figure on its front page slaps my eyes again and again. I glance toward Emmett, who just sits there in total fucking silence.

Why isn’t he saying anything? Why is he even here?

I’m going to scream and jump out the window. No, I’m going to keel over and die right where I stand. No, I’m going to puke—

Oh shit. I really am going to puke.

Without sparing a glance at the cluster of shocked businessmen, I bolt out into the hall and barely make it to a bathroom before I’m throwing up. Hollowed out, I cling to the cold toilet, trembling.

Someone knocks on the door. “Jenna?” Emmett calls.

“Go away,” I mutter.

“Jenna, are you okay?”

“I said fuck off!” I yell, my voice cracking. Tears overwhelm me in a rush, and I curl up into a miserable ball, wracked with the all-out sobs of a child.

For uncountable minutes, I cry into the silence. Just when I start to think he’s left, Emmett asks, “Can I come in?”

“What the hell do you think? How could you do this to me?” My voice rises, and I should be worried that the whole office can probably hear me, but I’m so far gone, I don’t give a shit anymore. “Was this your plan all along—to put a baby in me so I couldn’t fight back?”

“Of course not!” He sounds appalled. “I had no idea you owned the Lit Apothecary. Ronald was the one who handled this whole deal, and all you said was that you were in antiques and collectibles.”

I don’t respond. What words could possibly fix this?

Eventually, Emmett says so quietly I almost miss it, “I’m sorry. But, please, think it over. We really need this deal.”

I stand on shaky legs and go to the sink. I take my sweet time cleaning myself up. Trying not to look at my red, puffy, tearstained face in the mirror, I turn on the faucet and drink from my cupped hands to wash the acrid taste out of my mouth. Only then do I reply, “Bring me the contract.”

His footsteps recede, then return. He knocks again, and this time I open the door.

“Here,” he says, holding out the papers, a glimmer of hope in his desolation.

I take the packet without letting our fingers brush. Then, staring Emmett square in the eye, I toss it into the toilet.

“I don’t give a fuck what deal you really need. We’re done.” Turning my back on his shocked expression, I leave Emmett and his godforsaken vulture of a company far behind.