CHAPTER THREE
Presley
“What?”
I blink rapidly at Earl Graves as he rubs his hands together, excitement clear on my editor’s face. “You heard me. Kace Rymer is coming back to Knoxville, and I want you to be at the press conference, see if you can get a more in-depth interview with him.” Earl lifts his hands as if he’s seeing the title of the article on a billboard. “We’ll call it… The Come-Back Kid Comes Back Home.”
I stare at the man. Is he out of his mind? Goosebumps dance up my arms, even as sweat breaks out on my forehead. The world does a weird little tilting thing that makes me quite dizzy, and I place my hands on the large round table I’m sitting at, afraid I might topple over at any second.
I look around at my colleagues, who are all looking at their phones, clearly disinterested in the conversation now that the article has been assigned to me. Except Phyllis. My friend. Her dark brown eyes are huge as she looks back at me. She knows my history.
Assigned to me!
Why?
There are eight of us. What universal conspiracy forced Earl’s finger to point in my direction? Is my karma really so dirty that this is coming back to haunt me? This weekend of all times?
“I’m not the right person for this, Earl,” I say, managing to keep my voice steady.
He peers at me over his glasses. “And why not?”
Because I loved him.
Love him?
Because I feel guilt and confusion and arousal and hurt and betrayed and pain and hope and devastation every time I hear his name.
“It’s personal,” I manage, lifting my chin. In the four years I’ve worked at Sass & Frass, I’ve not once turned down an assignment, not once refused to work late or on weekends. Every single week, I’ve chugged out article after article, only releasing them to publication after I’d suffered over each word.
But… one of Earl’s eyebrows quirks up, and I realize it’s the absolute worst thing I could have said. Earl is a journalist at heart, and I just gave him a story to sniff out. Shit.
“Tell me more.”
Glancing around the table, I see that several heads have popped up from their phones, eyeing me with interest. I meet Earl’s gaze and give him a pleading look. Although I make a living with words, they fail me now.
“Do you have a restraining order against him?” Earl asks.
I nearly choke on my own spit. “Of course not.”
He steeples his fingers in front of his face. “Does he have one against you?”
My mouth sags open. “No. Absolutely not.”
His fingers begin tapping together. “Do you fear for your life or well-being around him? And should he fear for his life and well-being around you?”
Does the well-being of my heart count?
“No and no.”
All eyes are on me now, and I glance over at Phyllis, my very best friend in the world. She’s discreetly attempting to cut off this line of questioning by slicing her fingers across her throat.
Earl isn’t paying an ounce of attention to her, every bit of his focus beamed in my direction. “Are you a professional, Miss Collins?”
Shit. He only uses last names when he’s getting ready to prove a harsh and probably valid point.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Graves, sir.” I sound like a petulant little girl, but my heart is pounding so hard and the emotion running so high that I’m afraid I’ll burst into tears at any second if I don’t turn into an ice-cold bitch.
The old man looks amused. “As professional journalists, Miss Collins, we must find the fortitude to step outside of our comfort zone and—”
I can’t take the lecture a moment longer. “Okay. Okay. Fine. When and where?” I’m not sure, but I think my curls have started to sag toward my shoulders.
And something low and dangerous has begun to curl in my stomach, weaving its way down between my legs.
Glancing over at Phyllis, I accept her “I’m so sorry” expression with a “me too” expression of my own.
Earl looks down at his notes. “Says here that the press conference will take place at six o’clock. Game kickoff is at seven p.m., so I’m guessing you’ll only have about thirty minutes or so.
Thirty minutes.
I can do thirty minutes.
Yet I can’t help but notice the irony in the timing. Our wedding was supposed to have taken place at six o’clock, ten years ago tomorrow.
So… this weekend, I will be coming face to face with Kace Rymer after a ten-year separation. A separation he hasn’t once… not once… tried to bridge.
Ignoring the pain that knowledge stirs up in me again, I touch the tiny wrinkles at the corners of my eyes and sigh.
I don’t look the same as I did ten years ago. But why does that matter?
I look down at my perfectly creased slacks, my perfectly ironed white blouse. The sensible heels on my feet. I don’t dress the same either.
Will he even recognize me in the sea of reporters who will surely be at the conference? Will he be too stoned to care?
I heard rumors that he’d cleaned up his act, that his fifth trip to rehab had done the trick and he’d remained sober. And still… he never reached out to me. Not a call. Not a text. Not a word.
Maybe he’d scrubbed all of his past away, and I’d just been part of the dirt that swirled down the drain.
I’m quiet through the rest of the meeting, and my idea for learning why radio stations played new tunes into the ground is approved, so I have my next “I Wonder…” assignment. But I can’t stop looking at my pants. Can’t stop mentally sorting through my wardrobe. Can’t stop thinking it’s been too long since I’d had my hair trimmed. Too long since I’d had a facial or manicure. A wax.
A hand comes down on my shoulder, and I look up to see Phyllis standing over me. I blink and look around the now empty table.
“You okay?”
The laugh that barks out of me is bitter and sad… and something else.
I get to see him.
It’s stupid to have that tiny thin slice of excitement stirring around my system. But I do.
It’s been so long. After the first few years of our breakup, I’d forced myself to stop googling him. I’d forced myself to not look at his social media pages. Closed my ears to any news or any of his songs.
That had been self-preservation, I know.
“Yeah,” I finally answer her.
Phyllis sits down, her hand still a warm comfort on my shoulder. She exhales a long breath, then smiles. “So, what are you going to wear?”