Well, this is not how I planned for my morning to go. Not in the least.

I walk into the office, ready to do what’s expected—crunch my numbers, compile my clients’ reports, keep things copacetic. That was my plan, but reality Can’t Understand Normal Thinking and has a serious right hook.

Gavin is busy, crazy busy, according to the band’s Twitter feed. Entertainment news sites are going crazy with the speculation of his arrest and a growing rift within the band. According to theBuzz, the band is breaking up, Kane and Nate are secret lovers, and Ian is actually the secret bastard brother of Adam Whitfield from Of The Room. And they all hate Gavin.

What really solidifies the shitstorm from hell is a phone call. The phone call. The one I’ve been waiting for, biding my time for. Praying for. Unfortunately, the timing sucks.

It’s ten in the morning, and I’m stuck in a conference room with Brooks. Not Brooks on a conference call, but Brooks in the flesh, trying to sidle up to me with casual touches that are supposed to be alluring and some kind of sexy, I’m sure. In fact, he just annoys the crap out of me, and I can’t stand being in that dick’s presence.

It’s been days of sending texts and waiting. More texts and waiting. Texts and more waiting. So, when Gavin’s photo lights up my screen, I don’t even hesitate. I grab that phone, excuse myself, and try to school the ridiculous giddiness I feel into something office acceptable and professional.

The effort is totally wasted as I practically shake with excitement and gush out a breathy greeting. “Hey. Is it really you?” Stupid, I know, but where do we start this?

“Yeah, it is.”

That’s it. Nothing more, and I have no idea how to read him. It’s been almost a week since the weekend of hell.

“Gavin, I … you were here? Before you got …” I pause, rethinking the direction I was headed. “Before the tour started?” The phone is silent, and I check to see if he’s still there, my heart stuttering nervously. “Gavin?”

His sigh fills the interminable space between us. “I’m here. I … I was … there, I mean.” More silence. Another sigh evicted forcefully from his lungs. “I tried to surprise you, and then shit went bad.”

“I heard. I … saw.”

“Gracyn, that picture—”

I miss the rest of what Gavin says as Brooks leans over my shoulder, demanding my attention. “Don’t forget your coffee. You know how you get in the morning without it.”

Shifting away from his way-too-familiar proximity, I throw a quick, “Thanks,” over my shoulder at him before focusing back on the phone call. “Sorry, Gavin, I missed that,” I continue, only to feel an icy silence through the phone.

When Gavin speaks, it’s with a detached coldness, “Who was that?”

“Brooks,” I reply, trying desperately to channel Kate’s calm kindergarten voice. I try, but dear God, I have to grip my phone tightly so as not to drop it. I’m shaking all over.

“Brooks.” Gavin spits the name out like it’s venom. And it is, but he’s also a client, and I have to work with him.

Surely, Gavin can understand that?

“What is he doing there? Why is he with you?” He sounds like he’s just barely holding it together. “Gracyn, what did he say?”

“He just … he brought my coffee to me so that—”

“Yeah, because, for some reason, he knows how you are before you have your coffee in the morning. Really? I thought you were different, but you didn’t even fucking wait for me to leave, did you?”

“What? Gavin, no, I—”

He doesn’t give me a chance to explain, just cuts me off, barreling over my words, “Sarah at least waited until I left before she moved on. But you? Who were you fucking with, huh? Him or me?”

I … what? What is he implying?

“Gavin, I—”

“Christ, if he’s with you at this time of day, Gracyn … I’m not fucking stupid. I’ve seen the pictures, the declarations. I get it. His fucking hashtags. If that’s what you want, fine. That’s what you’re after? I thought there was more to you, that you were one of the ones who made the choice to live life as you dreamed, not as others expected you to. I really thought you were different. What a fucking joke.” He laughs humorlessly.

“Wait. Let me just explain—”

But, as far off the rails as this phone conversation has gotten, the train wreck is just now hitting.

Brooks passes by, handing me my things from the conference room. “Don’t forget your coat. It’s cold. I don’t want you freezing on the way.”

What the actual fuck?

It’s like he knows … like Brooks is perfectly aware of whom I’m talking to and how this might be coming across.

“Right,” Gavin huffs. “Better not keep your new man waiting.”

Why the fuck is that asshole with her at this time of the morning? Even with all the time we’ve spent apart, I know … I know she doesn’t go into work at seven in the fucking morning. That means that piece of shit is with her, at her apartment. The apartment I’ve not had the pleasure of waking up in with her. Of making her coffee … of seeing her prep for her day. No, those little luxuries went the way of the pisser when I got myself arrested and thrown in fucking jail instead of telling her—showing her—how much I loved her.

Can that be right? Have I fallen in love with another chick who can’t be bothered with waiting for me to do my fucking job? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I’m nothing but a fucking sap.

I check my phone and double-check it again, making sure that I do the correct calcs for time zones. Christ, some people can’t figure out Central to Eastern, and I’m crossing continents and funky exchanges. Not to mention, I’m sleep-deprived and jet-lagged, and I have no clue which way is up at this point. The guys have been giving me monumental shit since I arrived, not that I can blame them. The label execs haven’t held back either.

I made sure I called her at six thirty, her local time, well before our show tonight in Afghanistan. The one we’re doing for the USO, for the troops stuck in this desert for Christmas, far away from their families. And she’s got that motherfucker handing her coffee and her jacket well before she leaves for the office.

Isn’t that cozy as shit?

I’m out. I just can’t do the cheating, the dismissal by someone I thought I loved. I did love. I love.

I have no recollection of flinging my phone across the room, of it leaving my hand. Of sliding down the wall until my ass hits the floor with a decisive thud.