Chapter 24

Alice

I ran from the party as fast as I could—I didn’t want anyone to see me cry. I didn’t care one bit how insane I must’ve looked weaving through the guests. All I wanted was to be as far from Connor as humanly possible.

Once I got back down to the street, however, the tears came pouring out. But I knew I couldn’t waste time standing around. Surely, Connor was heading down in the elevator at that very moment, ready to come find me and launch into a big diatribe about just how sorry he was.

Or even worse: That it wasn’t what it looked like.

I know what I saw. I’d walked in on Connor, some redhead floozy on his lap, a big smear of tacky red lipstick on his face. That was all I the proof I needed.

I flagged down a passing taxi and held back my tears long enough to climb into the back. Once the door shut, however, they started right back up again. I was barely able to mumble out my address through the sobs racking my body.

I was mad as hell—no doubt about that. But the anger wasn’t just directed at Connor. I saved a healthy share for myself, as well. After all, I was the one stupid enough to think that Connor had changed his ways, that he wasn’t still the same sleazy womanizer he was all those years ago.

My eyes on the passing city as the cab crossed over the Williamsburg Bridge, I shook my head in disbelief at how stupid I’d been. Why did I even think this whole stupid thing would go any way but how it had? I thought I was all grown up, some brilliant, mature, professional woman who knew all the angles. Yet here I was, ten years later, getting played by Connor, just as I had been in high school.

After all, it takes two to tango, and a heartless cad like Connor needed his stupid, doe-eyed girl. I just didn’t think it was going to be me.

Move phone buzzed and buzzed in my purse, and I didn’t even need to look to know it was Connor blowing up my inbox with message after message about how we just needed to talk about all of this, that we just needed to get it all straightened out. Sure enough, that’s just what I saw when I took out my phone. I dismissed the messages without bothering to read them and powered down my phone.

I wasn’t in the mood for excuses. Sure, I’d gotten played just like I had before, and I couldn’t change that. But I could change how I reacted. By the time the cab pulled up to my apartment building, I was braced with a sense of determination. I wiped my tears and strode up the several stories to my apartment.

After grabbing a beer out of the fridge, I stepped up to the window, cracked it open, and looked at the sprawling Manhattan skyline. The city had always been an inspiration to me, but right now all it managed to instill was a sense of claustrophobia. Letting my beer wash around in my mouth, I realized that I needed to get back home, back to Hemswood.

So, that’s just what I did. I packed my bag, gathered up my computer, and bid farewell to my temporary apartment. I spent the train ride upstate in a strange frame of mind. The part of me gripped with anguish at what had happened battled with the side of me braced with righteous anger. And I knew this wasn’t simply a matter of conflicting emotions—it was the young, scared girl that I used to be, fighting it out with the woman I’d become.

By the time I crossed the threshold into my cozy little house, the latter had won. I was ready to put all of this nonsense behind me, to do what needed to be done. I flicked the lights on in my place, the warm glow of the lamps illuminating the interior of my little cottage-style home on the outskirts of Hemswood. It was the perfect place to work—just far enough from town to give me the privacy and focus I needed, but close enough that I didn’t feel isolated. And at that moment, the focus was what I was after.

Once in my office, plopped down at my desk, and powered up my computer. As I scanned my email I spotted one sent by Mitch, my editor. When I opened it up, I saw that he was eager to hear about my progress on the article and that he wanted me to give him a call as soon as I could.

I took a deep breath and pulled my phone out of my bag. Once it was powered up, I saw that I’d received even more texts from Connor. There were about six in total, all saying—sure enough—some variation on “call me.” They’d stopped about a half-hour ago—I hoped this meant he’d gotten the hint.

“Hey, kid!” said Mitch, his voice as boisterous as ever. “How’re things going with the project?”

“Well, Mitch, it all started with me trying to use my history with Connor to land the interview. But soon after, I found myself falling for him all over again. Long story short, we ended up having sex a few times, but not before he managed to rope me into some fake marriage plan. And now I’m sitting here with the mental image fresh in my mind of some redhead with enormous boobs sitting on his lap and lipstick smeared over his face.”

That’s what I wanted to say, at least.

“All’s well,” I said, getting up and walking slowly around the office was I spoke. “Just finished my last interview with Connor. And the outline’s just about ready—only need to fill it in.”

“Perfect, perfect,” he said. “And…how was it? We were lucky as hell to land him for the interview. This guy’s kind of a hot commodity at the moment.”

“It was…good,” I said, letting out the understatement of the century. “He’s an interesting guy.”

“So I hear. And I know you guys had a history together…that make things weird?”

“Nope!” was all I said, using every bit of restraint I had.

“Ah, OK,” said Mitch, his tone suggesting he could tell that there was more to the story. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it.”

We said our goodbyes, and that was that. Taking my place back at the computer, I pulled open the files and cracked my knuckles. But before I set to typing, the glint of something at my hands caught my eye. It was my engagement ring. With a frustrated yank, I pulled it off my finger and tossed it into the back of one of my desk drawers.

I was ready to put all of that nonsense behind me. I was ready to write the article of my life.