Piper
GOODBYE.
I had a feeling that was coming.
There’s been a weird vibe this whole week. I felt like something was wrong and that Tucker was pulling away. But when I saw him today, I knew it. Maybe it was the way he looked at me like he was memorizing my face. I don’t know how I knew, I just knew.
And, what just happened was not normal for us. The fucking, yes. But the intensity and emotion behind it, no. We’ve never had sex without a condom, for one. Why I didn’t stop him, I don’t know. I just wanted it. I wanted to know what it felt like, and now I regret it, not because of possible repercussions but because it was earth-shattering. It was one of those sexual experiences you read about, the ones that bring people to tears. But there was no way in hell I was crying in front of Tucker.
And then he kissed me.
And I kissed him back.
What the hell was I thinking?
He’s wrong about a lot of things, but one thing he’s right about is that we don’t do feelings. We don’t kiss. We don’t discuss our personal lives. We’re not even nice to each other. It’s how we keep things from getting personal. At least, that’s it for me. When I’m hating him, I forget about how sweet he is and how funny . . . and sexy as hell. If I focus on all of his annoying traits, like always being right and never taking anything serious, I don’t have time to think about anything else.
When I asked him earlier today what was wrong, I knew he wouldn’t tell me. I actually wanted to kick myself for even asking, but I wanted to know. I don’t know why, I just did.
Actually, that’s a lie. I do know why. Somehow, through all the hating, I’ve grown attached to him. He’s become my stress-relief, my distraction, the person I turn to when life gets too complicated.
I thought we had a good thing going. It’s not perfect or conventional, but it serves its purpose.
However, the feelings that have been coming to the surface are not part of the arrangement. I didn’t expect them. I can’t control them. And they’re freaking me out and pissing me the hell off. I want to scream . . . or fight with Tucker, but since I can’t do that, I have to get the fuck out of here.
Slipping off my heels, I run the rest of the way to the hotel.
Maybe there’s an earlier flight back to Birmingham. It’s worth a shot. And it’s better than sitting in the hotel room by myself for the rest of the night, thinking about Tucker and trying to make sense of what’s happening.
When I get to my room, I pull off my dress and throw it into my weekender. In my hang-up bag in the closet, I have an outfit I brought in case I took a later flight and went straight to the office, so I go ahead and take that out.
Part of me wants to just change and leave, but I need to wash the sex off. The last thing I want is a reminder of Tucker and this night.
Jumping in the shower, I begin to wash and I realize he was right. I feel him. If I close my eyes and allow myself to relax, I see him . . . hear him, smell him.
Fuck him.
Fuck him for making me feel.
Fuck him for changing the game.
The tears are a surprise. It’s been years since I’ve cried over a guy and the last time I did, I swore I’d never do it again. But I can’t stop them, so I let them flow and mingle with the water, flowing into the drain at my feet.
I stand there until I feel like I can breathe again. It takes a while. The water runs cold, but eventually, I regain my composure.
When I get out, I waste no time drying off and tossing my hair up into a twist at the nape of my neck. By the time I slip on my linen pants and cropped sweater, I feel more like myself.
More in control.
More put together.
Grabbing my bags, I give my room a once-over and try not to think about what I had fantasized about happening here this weekend.
By the time I call for a cab and ride out to the airport, which is a good thirty minute drive from the French Quarter, it’s almost two o’clock in the morning.
My original flight is supposed to board at five, so I decide to just wait it out at the terminal.
Horrible idea.
The worst ever.
Every guy who walks by reminds me of Tucker in one way or the other—cowboy boots, worn out jeans, a crazy hat, long blond hair, blue eyes. Of course, none of them have all of those characteristics. If they did, they’d be Tucker. And they certainly aren’t him.
He’s . . . well, he’s Tucker. He’s different from anyone I’ve ever dated. He’s so far from my idea of boyfriend material, and don’t even get me started on marriage.
According to my parents, the only acceptable man is a professional and preferably someone who went to school for at least six years, and not because they were a slacker. The person should also come from money. If they’re in politics, even better.
My degree and profession aren’t quite up to their standards. I’ve listened to them lament about my wasted education for the last six years. But it was the one thing I’ve stuck to my guns on. I decided I couldn’t and wouldn’t choose a profession based on what they wanted me to do. There was no way in hell I was going to be miserable every day of my life because of my job.
Maybe that’s why I never officially date anybody.
Because just like I couldn’t choose a career they approved of, I also don’t think I’ll ever be able to choose a guy they approve of. So, it’s easier to have an arrangement like I have with Tucker.
“Is this seat taken?” a deep voice asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I look up to see a dark-haired man, dressed in business casual, staring down at me. Taking a glance around the terminal, it’s obvious that we’re one of the few people waiting on the flight, so I shake my head.
“No, no one is sitting here.”
Subliminally, I’m saying no one is sitting here, including you. There are fifty other seats available. Why must he choose this one?
“These are the best flights,” he says, not taking my hint and helping himself to the seat and the plug-in between us. Firing up his laptop, he taps on a few keys, bringing it to life.
“Yeah,” I reply, trying not to engage, while also trying not to be rude.
“They’re always on time.”
“Yep.”
“So, were you in New Orleans for business or pleasure?” He pulls a pair of glasses out of his bag and slips them on, smiling at me in the process.
I bet this works for a lot of women. The whole glasses, charming smile, winning personality thing, but I’m not in the mood.
“My best friend got married,” I tell him, hoping a direct answer will get him to shut up and mind his own business.
“Ah, maid of honor?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Did she make you wear one of those tacky bridesmaid’s dresses with the frills and big bow?”
I laugh, because this is starting to become absurd and because it’s kind of funny, and maybe I should just appreciate the distraction and give in to his attempts at conversation.
“No, she’s actually one of those awesome brides who let us pick our own.”
“Wow. She’s like a unicorn or something, right?” He chuckles. “I mean, aren’t most girls bridezillas these days?”
“I wouldn’t know. That was actually my first wedding to be in.”
“No way,” he says in disbelief. “Gorgeous girl like you. I’m sure everybody wants you in their wedding. That’s the thing, right? Picking pretty girls, so your photos turn out good?”
I laugh, like full on laugh, because he’s probably right, but it’s still ridiculous. “I have no idea!”
“Yeah, that’s how it works. See, I have a theory.” He closes his laptop and turns in his chair to face me, fully engaged. “The women are so obsessed with the perfect wedding. They scour magazines and Pinterest themselves to death, until they have these completely unrealistic visions of their perfect day. So, instead of it being about them, it ends up being more like a Broadway production.”
“Man, you’ve really got this all figured out. Are you sure you’re not secretly a girl?”
This time, he laughs, and it’s not annoying. It’s actually a bit infectious and I join in.
“No, but I do have four sisters. Three of them are married and the other is planning her perfect day for next June. Not like the one coming up, but the one after that.”
“Oh, God,” I say, laughing again as I shake my head.
“Yeah,” he says with a nod, taking a second to just look at me. “I’m Greg.”
He offers me his hand and I take it, shaking it firmly.
“Piper.”
“I like that name.”
“Thanks.”
“You don’t have to say you like Greg. I know it’s incredibly boring. And I wish I could tell you that it’s Gregory . . . like Gregory Peck, all distinguished, but it’s not. It’s just Greg.”
“Well, just Greg, it’s nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
He smiles, before turning his attention back to his laptop and we sit in comfortable silence for a while. After checking my phone for missed texts or phone calls, even though I know there won’t be any, I pull out my planner and check my schedule for the week, making a fresh to-do list.
“Would you like a coffee?” he asks, standing up and stretching. “I need a pick me up and the coffee place should be open now.”
“Uh,” I pause, because I almost immediately agreed to a coffee from this virtual stranger.
“Piper? Coffee or no coffee. It’s not a life or death decision.”
I laugh nervously, this guy throwing me off of my usual game. I intended on coming here, running from my current situation and throwing myself back into my work. Meeting Greg wasn’t in the plan. “Right. Well, um, I don’t have any cash. I don’t travel . . .”
“It’s my treat.”
I shouldn’t say yes. Nothing is every truly free, even coffee. Like anything else, it leads to other things and I’m not looking for other things.
“Tell you what, since you’re having such a hard time deciding, I’ll bring back two coffees. If you want one of them, you can have it.”
“Okay,” I reply mindless, a bit lost in my over-thinking.
“Watch my bag?” he asks, nonchalantly, like we’re old friends.
“Okay,” I reply again.
I watch him walk away and I must admit he’s handsome. You’d have to be dead to not notice. His pants fit him perfectly and narrow at his ankles, setting off his shoes that match his belt. He’s dressed like someone walking an H&M runway show. His hair—intentionally messy on the top, while perfectly groomed on the sides—is the culmination of his persona.
Everything about him is well-maintained, putting off an air of success.
I wonder what he does for a living?
Doctor?
No, too laid back for that.
Lawyer?
Definitely not. Too friendly. But then again, Sam Landry is a lawyer and he’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever met.
Definitely not a rockstar. I almost snort at the thought. Greg and Tucker are polar opposites.
Fucking Tucker.
Get out of my head!
In less than two seconds, I go from blissfully relaxed to completely annoyed. Tucker always has the ability to turn me on and piss me off, but he shouldn’t be able to accomplish it when he’s not even in the same vicinity.
I wish I could flip a switch in my brain. An anti-Tucker Benoit switch. I don’t want to think about him. I don’t want to think about what his goodbye meant. I don’t want to think about the ache in my chest when the thought of not being with him enters my mind. I don’t want any of it. So, why can’t I control it? I control everything else in my life, why not this?
Maybe I do need a Greg.
Maybe I need someone to make me forget.
My parents would approve of Greg.
“Coffee, my lady,” he says, sitting back down in his seat and not giving me a chance to decline.
“Thank you, kind sir.”
He smirks and it’s cute, but it’s not Tucker.
Stop it.
When the plane arrives at our gate and we finally get to board, as fate would have it, Greg’s seat is across the aisle from mine.
“Nice coincidence,” he says with a boyish smile.
“It is,” I agree.
“Here, let me help you with that.” He grabs the bag from my shoulder and puts it in the overhead bin.
After we’re both seated and fastened in, he looks across the aisle. “So, what do you do, Piper?”
“I’m an editor for Southern Style,” I tell him, much more forthcoming than I normally would be. The South has definitely rubbed off on me, making me more trusting of people.
“Ah, the magazine business. Nice.”
“And you?” I ask, wondering if any of my guesses from earlier are true.
“I work for Bromberg’s.”
“Jewelry,” I say, a little surprised, but not really. I figured it was something lucrative.
“Yes, business development. We’re thinking about opening a new location in the French Quarter.”
“My best friend’s boy . . . uh, husband,” I say, correcting myself. “Her husband just opened a restaurant down there. You should try it out sometime.”
“What’s the name?”
“Lagniappe,” I tell him, still thinking about how weird it feels to say husband . . . I can’t believe Dani is married. “It’s a great place. The ambiance is unique, but posh. The menu is inventive and delicious. I promise, you won’t be disappointed.”
“Sounds like my kind of place. I’ll be sure to check it out sometime. I have a feeling I’ll be there quite often.”
“You should tell them I sent you.”
“I will.” He nods his head with a contemplative look. “Maybe I could take you there sometime. I’m sure you go to New Orleans often.”
“I visit occasionally.” Probably not as often now that things are . . . whatever they are between me and Tucker.
And there he is again.
I swear, he’s like a plague.
“I tell you what, I’ll give you my card and the next time you’re in town, call me. If I’m there, we’ll meet up, and I’ll treat you to dinner at Lagniappe.”
“Okay,” I agree, before I even have time to think about it, obviously. Because if I was thinking, I wouldn’t have. The worst thing I could do is have dinner in Micah’s restaurant with Greg. I don’t know why, but it doesn’t sit well with me.
“Here,” he says, pulling a card out of a leather holder. “This is my personal cell.” He writes a number on the back of the card before handing it to me across the aisle.
When we get to Birmingham, we go our separate ways. He’s nice. There’s honestly nothing wrong with him, but I know I’ll never call him.
And I don’t want to think too much about why I’m so sure about that, because every reason has to do with the one person I’m trying to forget.
Instead of going to my apartment, I head straight for my office. It’s early, but not too early. Besides, it’ll be nice to get a jump start on the day before my asshole boss shows up for our nine o’clock staff meeting.
Drake Montgomery has been thorn in my side since I took this job. He’s pretentious, comes from old money, thinks his shit doesn’t stink . . . basically, he’s my parents wrapped up in a tailored suit and slicked back hair. He also thinks every woman wants him and even though he’s constantly preaching about workplace behavior, he’s made advances on every female at Southern Style magazine.
He’s a literal walking contradiction and total douchebag.
If I thought I had a chance at getting him fired, that would be my mission in life, but his grandfather was one of the founding partners for the magazine, so he’s not going anywhere. Therefore, my goal is to get promoted and take his job. He’s our current editor-in-chief, but what he really wants is to be promoted to publisher. I realize as long as I’m at Southern Style, he’ll always outrank me, but I have hopes of at least getting to run my own department. At least then I wouldn’t have to see him on a daily basis.
Or make his coffee.
My dreams of a peaceful morning losing myself in my work are crushed when I pull into the parking garage and see his black Audi already in his spot. I want to cry, but I refuse to allow myself to be that weak twice in a twenty-four-hour period.
The universe hates me.
Some time, in a past life, I must have been a horrible person, and I’m currently reaping what I sowed. It’s the only explanation, because, despite my flaws, I try to be a good person. I’m a loyal friend. I donate to charity. I don’t litter. I occasionally pay-it-forward at Starbucks by buying the person’s drink behind me. I conserve water. I don’t listen to disco. I’m nice to animals. Kids love me.
Yet, I always feel like I’m being punished.
When I get to the top floor, I walk out of the elevator and keep my head down as I make my way to my corner office in hopes he’ll not notice me and I can escape the torture for a couple of hours.
Taking a deep breath and holding it, I walk past Drake’s office.
“Piper.” His tone is annoyed and it immediately sends me on edge. “In my office. Now.”
Turning around, I squeeze my eyes shut tightly and gather all the strength I can muster, before I walk to his door and brace myself for whatever shit he’s getting ready to put on my plate.
I can do this.
“Good morning, Mr. Montgomery.” I smile sweetly, even though inside I’m planning his murder.
“Sit.”
He continues to type away on his keyboard and I start to get impatient.
“What did you need to see me about?” I ask, struggling to keep my fake positivity going.
Fake it til’ you make it, right?
“This,” he says, turning his monitor so I can see it.
A grainy video begins to play and the sounds from a ruckus crowd flows through his office. Thankfully, we’re the only two people on the floor this early in the morning, because what he’s showing me is the video of Tucker’s proposal, and my heart drops out of my chest.
I try to think fast, come up with something to say—an excuse or explanation—but end up looking like a gaping fish. So, I press my lips together and keep my mouth shut, wondering if I can plead the fifth, as we listen to Tucker’s drunk words come through the speakers.
Piper Grey, you’re the best lay of my life.
We watch the entire video, from start to finish. When it ends, he turns his monitor around and clasps his hands in front of him, leaning over his desk. His eyes bore holes in me, as we sit in mind-splitting silence.
I have a brief moment of delusion as I consider the fact that Drake Montgomery, womanizer and all-around manwhore, might find this humorous. Maybe he wants to ask about my engagement . . . or impending nuptials.
I’d gladly fake that.
“Care to explain yourself?” His words hold no humor, and along with his frigid stare, feel like ice water pouring down my spine. My back straightens and I swallow hard, my mind scrambling for the right response.
“I was—”
“Drunk,” he provides, his jaw twitching as he levels me with his gaze.
This is what I was so worried about. My parents were a concern, sure, but in the back of my mind, this was the real fear.
“Yes,” I concede, deciding to take the high road. There’s no sense in lying. The proof is in the video. Maybe if we hash this out it can all go away.
“How do you expect to be promoted with this kind of trash floating around. What would my grandfather think?” His question makes me feel about two inches tall. The video is highly unprofessional, but is it against company policy to have a private life?
“Drake—” I begin, before he instantly cuts me off.
“Mr. Montgomery,” he corrects, cocking his head and straightening his tie. “If I found this, anybody could find it. Do you know what a video like this can do if it gets in the wrong hands? It’s a publicity nightmare, Piper. No magazine in their right mind would take a risk hiring someone like you, after seeing this. This isn’t Rolling Stone. We don’t pay you to party and make yourself famous for debauchery. Southern Style makes its money from wholesome people, looking for wholesome content.”
My heart stops at his words, because he’s speaking to my fears, feeding them. I want to have a smart comeback for him, but I have nothing. I feel like a child being reprimanded by a parent and he’s rendered me speechless.
Hearing his take on the whole ordeal makes me feel like I’ve committed a federal offense. Before now, I was worried about embarrassment, but Drake Montgomery has me feeling like I should be worried for my job, my professional reputation. I swallow hard, wondering how I’m going to get myself out of this.
“What do I need to do?” I ask, hating the way the words taste in my mouth, because being at his mercy is the last thing I want, right above being out of a job.