Chapter Twenty-Four
Graham
Almost done.
Another slide.
Another photo.
Another set of ads to review.
As I click on the final proof for the new campaign, I study it carefully, making sure every detail, every word is top-notch. Does it reflect the high-end brand we’ve crafted?
The new models look fantastic—they are every size, shape, and color, and each woman is beautiful in her own way—but I keep seeing CJ in the corset. CJ wearing it better than anyone’s ever worn it.
At least in my eyes.
And that’s when I realize what this campaign needs.
She was right.
CJ was damn right.
It’s not enough to change the images. The cake tagline is crap. These corsets aren’t about food. They’re about how they make a woman feel.
With a renewed focus, I tap out a few lines. Then I tweak them. I tighten them, and I send one final change back to the ad agency.
“This holiday season, feel sexier than you’ve ever felt before.”
Simple, but on point. That feels so much better than a slogan about candy or food. Women love gorgeous lingerie because of how it makes them feel. And men can’t resist a woman who is confident, passionate, and feeling sexy in her skin.
That’s what I need to convey. That’s what CJ has always shown me when she’s worn Adored.
I call my agency contact, not caring that it’s Saturday night. He doesn’t, either. Sometimes you have to burn the midnight oil. I give him the change, and he tells me he’ll make the adjustment and send proofs back to me shortly.
As I wait for him to reply, I review the slides one more time, then head to the conference room where the meeting will be held on Monday. I flick on the lights. All the chairs are empty, of course. It’s late on a Saturday night. But as I wander through the room, I picture Monday morning and the big pitch before the board. Before the shareholders. Making it clear I’m 100 percent committed to delivering on my vision.
God, I love this job, this company. I love what Sean and I built. My eyes stray to the photo of Sean and me at the hockey game, and a faint smile tugs at my lips.
He’d be proud, too. We built something from the ground up, and I continue to run it with integrity, treat our employees well, and deliver a superior experience to our consumers.
My smile fades.
Usually, I get a charge being in here, like a pitcher wandering across the mound before a big game, listening to the quiet of a stadium to get psyched up.
But right now, there’s a strange hollowness in this room. Maybe because I’m the only one here.
But maybe for another reason.
Because I don’t want to be here at all.
I want to be back at my house with my woman.
But she’s not mine. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I was being honest with her. I’ve never felt anything like what my parents have before. Not until now, with her. But I don’t know how to do this—how to risk losing the friend I love to win the woman I love, knowing I can’t have them both. Maybe I’m foolish to think I could have more with her. She chose me because I have a reputation for knowing what to do in the bedroom, not because of my stellar track record with relationships.
Because that does not fucking exist.
I return to my desk, but there isn’t anything in my inbox from the ad agency, even though the clock is ticking closer to nine.
On impulse, I pull out my cell and text CJ.
Graham: What did you have for dinner, Butterfly? I’m hoping it was something much more delicious than the yogurt I stole from the staff fridge.
CJ: I actually haven’t eaten yet. I was too busy picking up Stephen King and grabbing groceries and cat food. My apartment is ready early so I decided to head home.
What? Head home?
For a second, the words make no sense. When I think of home, I think of my home, because with CJ there, it finally feels like a home. Like a place I want to hang out on a Wednesday night and watch movies, or lounge in bed on a Sunday morning with coffee and pancakes.
With her. All of it with her.
And a part of me just can’t process that she’s taken off like that, without a heads-up.
Graham: You left? You didn’t tell me. I didn’t think your place would be ready so soon.
CJ: I didn’t, either. But hey, miracles happen! It’s so nice to be home with the kitty. I think he missed me. He’s super cuddly and trying to eat my earring. Isn’t that sweet?
No. That’s not fucking sweet. She should be with me. Her crazy cat should be eating . . . a coaster in my house, a belt loop off my jeans, the top of the toothpaste tube.
Anything.
I rub my hand over the back of my neck, trying to make heads or tails of her departure. I cast about for something to say, something to make it clear I’d rather she be with me.
Graham: That’s great, but selfish bastard that I am, I was really enjoying having you with me.
I read it once more and hit send. I lean back in my chair and wait. That ought to at least start making it clear how I feel. I’ve never poured my heart out to a woman before, but I don’t see how she can fail to get the message from that.
I want more of her.
A few seconds later, a reply arrives, and I tense, hoping it’s her saying she’s called an Uber to meet me back at my place, to stay this night, then the next, then the next.
CJ: I enjoyed it, too. Of course I did. And I know we were supposed to have seven days of lessons, but it’s nearly a week, and after today I feel ready. I’ve learned all I need to make it on my own. But thank you so much. I’ll never forget how wonderful you were. You were everything I wanted in a teacher and more.
A teacher? That’s all I fucking was to her? A goddamn teacher she’ll never forget? I stare at her note. I turn my phone upside down, as if I can shake out the true meaning of her message.
But when I read it once more, those cold words mock me.
I was only her teacher.
I wasn’t her lover.
She was clear from the start. She wanted lessons in sex. She didn’t sign up for romance.
I’m the only one who made that mistake. I’m the jackass who had this all wrong. I scoff, laughing at myself, but it’s not fucking funny. It's ironic. And it serves me right. Before her, I’d never been in love. Hell, I’ve never been in a relationship that lasted longer than a couple of months. Of course I’d fuck it up.
And make the rookie mistake of thinking she’d fallen in love with me, too.
But even though I’ve royally screwed up when it comes to understanding what love is, I’d like to think I at least know respect.
And I need to respect the woman’s wishes. So I say something that’s true to my feelings while giving her the distance she seems to want.
Graham: Thank you. The pleasure was truly all mine. I loved every second of being with you.
Past tense. Loved. Was.
I hit send and immediately bring my thumbs back to texting position. Because this sucks.
There’s a painful ache in my chest. It’s no longer empty. It just fucking hurts, and I want to say so much more. I want to tell her that I’m not ready for this to end, that I don’t want it to end at all. Ever. I want to promise her that I can make all her dreams come true, and that there’s no need to make it on her own.
Or, God forbid, make it with some other guy.
The thought makes me sick. Physically ill. Sour inside. To think of some bastard with his hands on my CJ.
But she’s made her position clear. So I simply text—
Graham: I’m here whenever you need me, Butterfly. Anytime. Anywhere.
CJ: Thank you. That means a lot to me, Graham.
She means a lot to me. She means more to me than she’ll ever know.
I don’t know how long I sit silently at my desk, numb and more alone than I’ve felt since my best friend died, but eventually, my inbox dings.
The ads are here.
The new mock-ups are perfect, so I send my approval and then return to the collection of walls where I will sleep tonight.
It doesn’t feel like home. Not without her.