Chapter 9
Colm was unspeakably relieved when Aiden showed no apparent signs or symptoms of illness while they were preparing to leave the house. Sure, they hadn’t actually stepped foot into Monica’s place, but you never knew with kids. They seemed to pick up and pass along viruses like relay racers with a baton. Swallowing his guilt, he dropped his well-rested kid off at daycare, and proceeded to his early morning dentist appointment without attempting to call and check on Monica and Emma. He hoped they were getting at least some sleep and didn’t want to risk waking them.
He was at the door when Dr. Holt’s hygienist, Andrea, arrived. “Wow. Someone’s excited to get their X-rays.”
Colm smiled and pushed away from the wall opposite the office door. “Yeah, well, what guy doesn’t want a bat-wing of his own?”
“Hate to break this to you, champ, but they’re called bitewing, not bat wing.”
Affecting a scowl, Colm waited as she flipped on overhead lights. “Oh. In that case…”
She laughed and waved him in. “Nope. Shauna’s not here yet, but I’ll check you in and get you all shined up before Dr. Holt gets here.”
He followed her into one of the patient cubicles and took his seat in the chair. Andrea handed him an ancient copy of Field & Stream and told him to keep himself entertained while she juiced up the coffee maker. Colm ruffled the pages of the magazine, but the pictures barely registered. He liked fishing and stuff but wasn’t really up for reading up on the subject. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he tapped his way through his inbox and a handful of other notifications.
Nothing new from Monica yet. Unable to hold off a minute longer, he typed a quick message about hoping they felt better and promising to call after his appointment. The little whooshing noise made him feel slightly less guilty about getting a full night’s sleep. He knew how miserable spending the whole night dumping puke pots and changing sheets could be.
“Ready to go?” Andrea asked, snapping the cuff on her latex glove.
“You love the snap, don’t you?” he asked, eying her warily.
She grinned, then pulled her mask up over her nose and mouth. “Limited career options for born sadists,” she said, her voice only slightly muffled by the covering. Her eyes twinkled as she slipped a pair of wrap-around safety glasses onto her nose. “My choices were dental hygienist or beauty aesthetician.”
“Beauty aesthetician? What do they do?”
The corners of her eyes crinkled as she ripped open a pack of sanitized instruments and pressed the pedal to lower the chair into supine position. Looming over him, she raised her instruments. “They get to do bikini waxes and all the fun stuff.” She tapped his chin with her pinkie finger. “Open wide.”
Thirty minutes later, Andrea pronounced him sparkling clean. Mask crumpled around her neck, she patted his shoulder as she returned the chair to an upright position. “You were a good boy.”
He smirked at her condescending tone. She said the same thing to Aiden when he was done, too. Except Aiden got his pick of toys when he was through, and Colm got stuck paying the bill. “Thanks. Do I get to visit the treasure chest?”
“We’ll see what Dr. Holt says,” she said in a sing-song voice. “I heard him come in. I’ll send him on in.”
Upright again, Colm worked his jaw back and forth as he took a moment to study the exam room. A picture Aiden had colored was pinned to a corkboard, surrounded by pictures of grinning patients. The countertops held anatomically correct models, a disturbing display on gum disease, and an oversized pair of plastic chattering teeth sat right in front of a framed photo of Dr. Holt and his family.
He’d been about to move on to an advertisement for whitening treatments when the hairs on his neck prickled. Turning to the photo, he skipped over the good doctor and squinted hard at the woman and child clustered close to him. Mrs. Holt was a pretty woman in an all-natural sort of way. Her wavy dirty-blond hair was carelessly styled and a little wispy. She had the wispy look of an artist or a gypsy. Or maybe the assumption was based solely on the patchwork skirt and floaty white blouse she wore. But there was something familiar about her. Maybe her eyes? Possibly the nose. Her smile. Yes, that was it. He’d seen her smile. Knew that smile. Intimately.
Swinging his legs over the side of the chair, he planted his feet on the ground, but his body seemed to be moving in slow motion. His gaze slipped from the mother to the daughter. The skinny brown-haired girl had the same smile as her mother.
His stomach twisted into a knot as he pushed the toy teeth aside and picked up the frame. He needed a closer look to be absolutely sure. But there was no denying what he was seeing. The little girl’s grin confirmed she was standing exactly where she belonged.
“My wife, Melody, and my daughter, Emma.”
Colm jumped and the frame almost slipped from his hand. He caught the picture with a grunt, pressing the glass into his stomach to be certain he’d secured it, then fumbled the photo back into place. “I was, uh…” He adjusted the angle on the counter and shoved the chattering teeth into place. “Nice picture.”
“Thanks.” Dr. Holt gestured for him to take a seat in the chair again. Once Colm complied, he immediately began to flatten and lower the chair. “My wife hates studio photography. She says it’s stifling.” His soft snort let Colm know he thought his wife was both wacky and wonderful. “My sister-in-law took that one last spring.”
Colm managed to get a quick “Yeah?” out as the doctor motioned for him to open his mouth.
“Yeah. Melody likes candid stuff, has all this crazy expensive photography equipment.” He craned his head to peer at Colm’s molars. “Our place is littered with pictures of crumbling bridges and shacks. For family pictures, I have to rely on Monica and her cell phone.”
Dread pooled cold and heavy in Colm’s belly. He closed his eyes as if he might be able to block out the truth. But there was no point. He’d known the minute he saw the little girl in the photo. Emma wasn’t Monica’s daughter. Lies. Everything Monica had told him from the moment they met had been complete bullshit.
Exactly like Carmen.
The moment the connection was made, there was no way of unknowing. The dread he’d felt a moment ago congealed into a ball of icy anger. He said nothing. Couldn’t with this guy probing around in his mouth. Taking deliberate breaths through his nose, he fixed his gaze on the muted television screen mounted on the ceiling. The news was covering the mayor’s press conference. Colm narrowed his eyes as he watched the man dodge and duck the questions being lobbed at him. He didn’t need to read the closed captioning to know the man was lying his ass off, too. The whole fucking world was filled with nothing but liars.
“Looking good.” Dr. Holt sat back and pulled his mask down. “X-rays were clean. You’re good to go for another six months unless there’s something bothering you.”
The chair hummed and vibrated beneath him. Colm stared at the dentist’s open, inquisitive face, wondering if the guy knew. If he’d been in on the joke. Maybe they all thought Monica using their kid to meet guys was a hoot. Or, maybe old doc here was trying to offload the sister-in-law on some poor, unsuspecting schmuck.
“I think I’ve met your daughter,” he said, jerking his chin toward the picture. “She was at the park with your sister-in-law. Monica,” he added as if unequivocal confirmation was needed.
“You did?”
“Yeah.” Rubbing a hand across his jaw, he licked his latex-dry lips. “Your Emma found my kid’s toy for him. Nice girl.”
“She’s awesome.” Dr. Holt beamed. “Best thing to happen to me ever. Don’t tell Mel I said so, you’ll only get me in trouble.”
Colm couldn’t help but return the man’s smile. He knew that level of enthusiasm well. “Yeah, kids are great. They make you crazy, but they’re great.”
“Set him up for another six months, Andrea.” As the hygienist pecked at the computer, Dr. Holt peeled off his gloves and nodded to the picture. “She and Aiden are probably about the same age.”
Six months apart, Colm thought. But he couldn’t say so, because Monica had told him how old Emma was, and for all he knew, that was another lie. Monica had lied to him. Lied over and over again. The implications were too much to absorb. The park. Her whole “let’s not talk about the kids” bit. The convenient stomach bug she’d made up to keep him from crossing her threshold last night. Had she been sick, or was the stomach bug just one more lie? Like the cherry on top?
His gaze drifted to the photo again, but this time he zeroed in on the sister. Had she been in on the plot? Did Dr. Holt know his wife was letting his daughter be used as a prop to pick up guys in the park?
As if reading his thoughts, the doctor continued. “Funny, Emma looks and acts so much like Mel’s sister. Emma’s very no-nonsense like Monica. Melody swears the two of them gang up on her.”
Colm swallowed hard. “Yeah, I guess I assumed they were mom and daughter when I saw them in the park.”
The other man snorted. “Not hardly.” When he caught Colm’s startled stare, Dr. Holt shrugged. “Monica’s not the maternal type. She’s one of those high-powered career women who doesn’t have time to date.” Turning away, he tossed the balled up gloves into a container. “Don’t get me wrong. She’s a good aunt, but she’s definitely more the hands-off type with kids.”
“She is, huh?” Colm practically launched himself out of the space chair. He needed to get out of there. Turning to Andrea, he made a show of checking his watch. “Hey, I have to get going. Will you set me up for six months and send me a reminder?”
The hygienist seemed taken aback by his sudden rush. Muttering his goodbyes, he beat a path to the office door.
He was in front of Monica’s brownstone in a matter of minutes. Of course, she wasn’t home. He unclipped his phone from his belt as he jogged down the steps but didn’t place the call. The thought of having this confrontation over the phone crawled all over him, but he couldn’t imagine storming her office and trying to have it out with her in front of all her colleagues. Sitting in his truck, Colm stared down at the photo he’d attached to her contact information.
This was the Monica he knew. Tousled, sexed-up, and satiated. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized he didn’t have the first idea where her office was. He didn’t know if she stopped for coffee on the way in to work at the crack of dawn, or if she was one of those freaks who didn’t drink coffee. Rubbing the pad of his thumb idly across the screen, he searched his memory, trying to recall if he’d even spotted a coffee maker in her barely used kitchen. He knew nothing about her other than how to make her come.
Except, she was apparently a compulsive liar.
Jaw set, he tapped the option to place the call. She answered on the first ring, her tone crisp and business-like.
“Monica Rayburn.”
He inhaled through his nose, but forced a civil tone. “How are you feeling today?”
“Oh, hi.” Her voice softened like butter left too long in the microwave. “Hey.”
“Fully recovered?” he persisted.
“Hm? Oh! Yeah. Must have been one of those overnight bugs.”
“And Emma?”
She hesitated for a second. When she did, there was a note of caution in her voice. “She’s fine.”
Colm couldn’t take the lies and half-truths any longer. “And you’d know this because you stopped by your sister’s on the way in to work this morning?”
Silence. The question and all of its implications and accusations hung there. Her lack of response was like a bucket of sand tossed over the last smoldering coals of hope burning in his gut. Of course she wasn’t going to deny it. To deny would be to confirm, and Monica was too sharp to fall for anything so obvious.
“I had a dentist appointment this morning. Guess who had a picture of a little girl I know named Emma? My dentist, Dr. Holt.”
“Colm—”
“Imagine my surprise when he told me Emma was his little girl, and the woman in the photo with them was his wife. Emma’s mother.”
“I can explain—”
“Can you? You can explain how everything you told me was a lie?”
“Not everything.”
She stopped talking. Of course she did. Monica was sharp. The nit-picking defense wasn’t a great strategy to take at the moment, and she’d tuned into the volume of his silence. She was perceptive. He knew that much about her, even if he didn’t know anything else.
“How do you take your coffee?” He couldn’t stop himself from asking.
“Colm—”
“Where’s your office?”
“Please listen—”
“No, I think I’m done listening to you.” He couldn’t deny himself the pleasure of prodding and pressing her. Even if it meant he had to subject himself to every ounce of pain her deception produced. After all, he deserved a good dose, too.
He was the idiot who’d been so gullible. Again.
He’d let himself believe. Again.
And look where he was—alone. Again.
“When were you going to tell me?” he demanded.
To her credit, she didn’t lie this time. “Never.”
“You were going to fuck me for a while, and what? Stop calling?”
The minute the words were out of his mouth, he wished they hadn’t escaped. Because they had a deal. They’d agreed to exactly those terms when they started. The set-up he thought he wanted. And now he was pissed at her for sticking to the plan? Christ, he sounded like a needy teenager.
Covering his eyes with his hand, he pressed his temples with his thumb and middle finger. “Well, you can stop,” he said, his voice flat and forbidding.
“Colm, don’t,” she said in a rush. “Let me explain.”
“That you lied? You’ve been lying and planned to keep on lying?” He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “No need. I clued in all on my own.”
“I didn’t lie.”
There was a knife’s edge keenness in her tone. One that said she was adept at splitting hairs. Suddenly, he felt tired. So tired. Like he’d been the one up all night with a fake kid nursing the fake flu. There was no point in dissecting this. Whatever he thought their relationship was, or might have become, they obviously hadn’t been on the same page.
Letting his breath go, he forced his shoulders to come down and stretched his neck forward to release the tension. There was really no need. They’d had a mutually satisfying physical relationship. If he’d developed unrealistic expectations about what was happening between them, the fallout was his problem and he’d deal. Alone.
“Good-bye, Monica.”
He didn’t wait to listen to whatever she had lined up behind the desperate-sounding “But—” she blurted.
With a single tap on the screen, he stopped the lies.
* * * *
Monica dropped into her desk chair like a stone. Her assistant came scurrying to her side. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay? Are you sick?” Nicole dropped to a knee beside Monica’s chair and reached out as if to touch Monica’s forehead. “Do I need to call 911?”
Monica batted the young woman’s hand away. “What? Why? No!” She gripped the arms of her chair and forced herself to sit up ramrod straight. “I’m fine.”
“But you’re sitting,” Nicole insisted, her forehead puckering in consternation. “You don’t sit when there’s trading.”
Startled by the truth in the observation, Monica blinked. Her glass-walled office offered little privacy for either her or her staff. Usually, she liked it. As a matter of fact, in all the years since she’d become partner, she’d never once closed the sliding glass door to her office while the market was open. She wanted to see all. Hear all. Thrived on the chaos of business surrounding her.
Ironic. Now, her actual life was in chaos, and she didn’t have the first idea what to do to fix things.
Needing a moment to gather herself, she forced a weak smile for her assistant. “Hey, would you grab a bottle of water for me?”
Nicole hopped to her feet. “Sure thing, boss.”
Teeth set on edge, Monica continued to grip the armrests as she watched the younger woman scurry away. The warren of cubicles they called the bullpen was alive. An electronic board scrolled acronyms and numbers. Monica was proud of the team she’d assembled. Pleased by how far she’d come since she’d wormed her way into one of those cubicles. This was a man’s world, but she’d conquered every obstacle put in her path to a corner office. Proved she had the chutzpah to make the boys shut up and listen. This was her queendom. This modern-day bedlam pulsing with shouts. She lived her life to a soundtrack consisting of cries of either anguish or ecstasy. And for a long time, she’d thrived on the thrills and chills, but now she was stepping back from the melee.
Those glass walls allowed her to witness the mayhem but not actually take part. She handled trading for only a select handful of clients anymore. She staffed all the others out to the junior traders she’d trained and groomed herself. The business world called it “delegating,” but Monica knew what her need for distance really was.
Cowardice.
She’d lost her edge years ago, but she wasn’t about to admit as much. Not when she’d fought and crawled and clawed her way up the ladder. These days, she preferred to hand the reins and any resultant blame off to one of her subordinates. When anything did go wrong, she could step in, smooth the waters, and step back again without any personal loss of face.
Covering her face with her hands, she leaned forward until her elbows hit the desk. This was exactly the kind of self-analysis she’d spent most of her adult life avoiding. Melody was the one who loved soul-searching. Monica wasn’t even entirely sure she had a soul, and, frankly, she was too scared to look. What if all she found was a big, gaping hole?
The worst part was she couldn’t blame Colm for being pissed. He’d done everything right, and she’d been all wrong. From the very start, she wanted to indulge herself with Colm, but not really risk anything in the process. From the get-go, she had no intention of showing who she really was. Hell, it had been so many years since she even attempted to have a life, she wasn’t certain she could tell him who she was outside of her career.
Worse, she hadn’t even been able to tell him the most basic facts about herself. She was known among family and what few friends she kept in touch with for her glib comebacks and pithy asides. But with Colm, she fumbled the simplest truths. Even when those truths were nothing to be ashamed of. Certainly not worth hiding. How pathetic could one person be?
So she wasn’t Emma’s mom. There was no law stating only parents could take a child to a public park. And yes, she might have set the record straight on any number of occasions, but she hadn’t sworn an oath upon accepting his dinner invitation.
“Boss? You okay?”
The quiet question undercut all the ambient noise coming from the bullpen and sliced clean through her line of justification. A low moan gurgled in her throat. She forced herself to raise her head, intending to whip out a standard “I’m fine” and send Nicole to her own desk, but her vision came up blurry. And though her brain screamed the words like a petulant child, no sound came out.
“Monica?”
The concern in Nicole’s tone spurred her into action. Pressing her palm to her stomach, Monica did something she hadn’t done since she was a junior trader.
She called off sick.
“No. I think I have to go.” Gripping the edge of her desk, she made a feeble attempt to stand. When her knees failed, Nicole appeared at her side in a flash.
“Here.” The younger woman thrust an ice-cold bottle of water into Monica’s limp hand. “Uh, you’re okay,” she murmured unconvincingly. This was new territory for the both of them. “Sip this slow. I’ll call down and tell Joe you need a cab.” The moment the words were spoken, her uber-efficient assistant sprang into action. Snatching the handset of the desk phone from its cradle, she tucked the receiver between her shoulder and ear.
Ten minutes later, Monica had cleared the snarl of downtown traffic and was speeding toward home. This was a first. In so many ways. She couldn’t remember a day when she ducked out of work prior to the close of trading. Definitely the first time she had ever ditched work because of a guy. She’d never let any man close enough to influence more than what she ate for dinner, much less ruin her entire day.
Her breath snarled in her chest. Monica pressed the side of her fist to the spot. The added pressure didn’t help. The sharp edge of finality in Colm’s tone cut to the bone. He was done with her. His position was clear. But she wasn’t ready to be done with him. She was an idiot. An absolute idiot. She should have listened to Melody. Hell, she should have listened to her own conscience. But no, as usual, she hadn’t listened to anyone or anything. Like a pirate, she’d barged right into the man’s life, taken what she wanted, ignoring what was right. Or honorable. Honest.
The cab jerked to a halt in front of her place. She scrounged a twenty from her wallet and shoved the money through the partition, mumbling, “Keep the change.”
The driver did a double take when he saw the bill. “You sure, lady?”
Monica roused herself from her stupor to look at the meter. The fare had come to seven dollars and forty-five cents. Automatically, her brain clicked and whirred. The balance from the bill would be about a one-hundred-and-eighty percent tip. Monica shrugged, reached for the door handle, and dragged her purse and briefcase across the cracked vinyl seat as she climbed out. “One of us needs to have a good day, and I don’t think it’s going to be me.”
“Hey, thanks! Hope things get better for ya,” he called as she let the door swing shut.
Monica acknowledged his well-wishes with a wave and trudged to her door. Once inside, she let her bags fall to the floor and tossed her keys into the glass bowl on the table. Shuffling into the kitchen, she realized she was home in the middle of the morning and didn’t have the first clue what to do.
Was she supposed to watch daytime TV? She frowned at the tiny television mounted above the kitchen counter. Usually, she only powered the set on if she wanted to catch an early morning market report, or maybe check to see if a day’s trading made the evening news for one reason or another. But this wasn’t the time for talking about money; these were the hours when money was made. Or lost.
A surge of panic gripped her heart like a fist. She turned toward the front door but stopped. No. She’d done the right thing. She wasn’t thinking straight, and the worst thing she could do to her team or her clients was pretend like she was. This was why she trained her people so rigorously, she reminded herself, so she could take vacations or the occasional day off. Smirking at her own capacity for self-delusion, she reached for the remote control. She rarely took vacations and never took days off.
She pointed the remote at the flat screen and hit the power button. Maybe there was a soap opera on. Did they still make soap operas? Maybe some daytime drama other than her own was what she needed. A little over-the-top acting to put her own little melodrama in the shade might be the ticket.
Monica flipped channels until she landed on one of the networks. A group of women were assembled in a variety of mismatched armchairs set to resemble some kind of eclectic living room. Between sound bites, photos of a Hollywood starlet caught in a variety of unflattering poses appeared. Monica caught the words “downward spiral,” “unreliable,” and “break-up.” She turned her back on the chatty coven.
There was a little ice cream in the freezer. Very little, but she and Melody had shown a modicum of restraint when they had their wallow. Monica yanked open the door and a blast of super-cooled air hit her right in the face. She eyeballed the container of Chunky Monkey, wrinkling her nose in distaste. Ice cream in the morning didn’t seem right.
She let the freezer door slam shut and turned her attention to the fridge. There, on the top shelf, were the six-pack of beer she’d bought for Colm and a bottle of crisp, dry chardonnay. She blinked to banish the tears threatening to fall and lunged for the slender green bottle. Ice cream might not be the answer this early in the day, but wine sounded perfect.
“Five o’clock somewhere,” she muttered as she pulled the corkscrew from a drawer.
The cork released with a satisfying thwunk. Monica smiled grimly as the liquid gold glugged into the bowl of a stemless glass. She downed half the glass. The ladies on the talk show moved on to the next topic—the red-hot actor who’d titillated all the residents of Ladyland by getting caught on film playing with his squealing kids in the Pacific surf. Cradling her glass with both hands, Monica sagged against the opposite counter as she took in the man’s rippling muscles and crinkling smile.
He looked like Colm. She heard one of the women say something about the actor being Irish, and the next thing she knew, Monica had drained the contents of the glass. Gasping for breath, she gripped the edge of the counter to steady herself. The wine hit her stomach and her head at the exact same time.
What the hell was wrong with her? Was she having a stroke? Maybe a heart attack? More likely. Her chest felt compressed. As if she were folding in on herself. Or curling up like one of those furry little guys who balled up to protect themselves.
“Hedgehog,” she blurted the moment her brain located the data.
Wincing, Monica set the glass aside and wrapped her arms around her roiling stomach. Her skin felt stretched too tight. Like she might burst out of her own face. Closing her eyes, she gave in to the pull of gravity and allowed herself to bend at the waist, curling her arms and shoulders in as she did. Maybe if she made herself as small as possible, she’d be able to keep from exploding. Or imploding.
Hard to say at this point which way she would go.
She opened her mouth to try some yoga breathing, but, to her shock and mortification, the only thing she managed was a big, heaving sob. Oh, no-no-no. Her mind raced to keep up with this new turn of events. She wasn’t a sobber. She didn’t cry. Particularly not over a man. She didn’t need a man. Particularly not one with a kid. What did she think was going to happen, even if she had come clean? The three of them would live happily ever after? Like she’d wake up one day and suddenly be all…maternal and shit?
Not likely.
Pressing her palms to her knees, she forced herself to drag big gulps of air. She tuned out the diaper and baby food commercials playing in the background and stared hard at the hammered-nickel handle on the cabinet directly in front of her. Though she had told him she liked to cook, Monica couldn’t say what might be in the cabinet. She did her best work in the office and the bedroom. If she’d been smart, she’d have stuck to her strengths.
She should never have let him into her kitchen.
Pushing away from the counter, she rushed down the hall to where she’d dropped her bags. Her phone was tucked into its usual pocket. Nicole must have put it there. Monica didn’t remember gathering any of her stuff. As a matter of fact, she didn’t recall leaving her office. Or most of the ride home.
Had it buzzed and she didn’t hear? Maybe Nicole had turned the ringer off so she wouldn’t be bothered?
Nicole was always thinking. Planning. She did thoughtful things. The little niceties always entered Monica’s consciousness a second too late. Story of her life. Always a beat too late. Until today, she never minded too much.
Of course, she’d never had a delaying tactic bite her in the ass as hard as this asinine “pretend to be a mommy to get the hot daddy” ploy.
Patience was more than a virtue; it was a sound business practice. Waiting for others to make their move so she could respond strategically paid off for her time and again. The key was knowing the right moment. Fear had forced her to cling to a losing proposition. Her refusal to take the risk had cost her big.
But maybe sticking to the safe side didn’t have to cost her everything. Or, maybe she wasn’t too late to make the bold move.
She pushed the button to wake the device, a lump lodged firmly in her throat. No calls. No texts. She swallowed the last bitter dregs of willful optimism and swiped the screen. She stared at the photo for a long moment, then tapped the option to dial his number. For the first time since the afternoon they met, she was reaching out to him.
The call clicked over to voicemail, and she pulled the phone from her ear to scowl at the screen. The temptation to end the call was strong, but she refused to indulge the weakness. She’d hidden too much already.
The second she heard the beep, she pressed the phone to her cheek. “Hi. Colm.”
She spit the words out like watermelon seeds—sharp, staccato. She gulped and tried again.
“Hi, Colm. It’s me. Monica. I, uh…” Pausing to curl her hand into a fist, she pushed through in a rush of breath. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have told you. I wanted to tell you—” She stopped herself. The last thing she wanted was to venture too far down the road of half-truths again. “Actually, I didn’t. I didn’t want to tell you because you liked me as Emma’s mom, or thinking I was her mom, and I liked you. So I didn’t tell you.”
Pulling in a lungful of bracing oxygen, she barreled ahead. “I wanted you, so I lied to get you.” A frown tugged at her mouth as she considered the veracity of her statement. Once she started, the compulsion to come completely clean won out. “But, technically, I didn’t lie to you. I let you believe what you assumed was the truth.”
Good God, this had to be the worst apology ever given. If any guy had tried to woo her with such weak arguments, she would have shot enough holes through him to make Swiss cheese. What was worse, she was giving this testimony on the record.
“Not what I meant to say,” she rushed to assure him, though she was certain there was no redeeming the call at this point. “I just…I am sorry, Colm.” She bit the inside of her cheek, gearing up to give him the bald-faced truth. “I never thought things would go this far. I didn’t expect to like you this much. I only wish…” She shook her head in despair, even though she knew the motion wouldn’t translate over the phone. “I’m sorry. More sorry than you can imagine.”
Biting her lip, she searched her mind for a way to say what she wanted to say next without coming across as a pathetic girl who’d been dumped because she’d done something dumb. But there was no denying she deserved to pay the price. Even if that price was the last scrap of her pride.
“Please call me, okay? Give me a chance to explain.” She winced at her own word choice. “And apologize. Because I am sorry.” She gave a short huff of a laugh. “Sorrier than I’ve ever been, I think. If sorry counts for anything.”
Tapping her fingers against the hard plastic shell of the phone case, she let the rest of her pride go on a long sigh.
“Call me. Please.”
Monica ended the call, her eyes fixed on the screen until it went dark. There. She’d done her best. Invoked the magic word. Saying please had to count for something, right?