20. A Frank Talk - Jules
Monday morning, I bring the sunflower bouquet Cash bought me to work because I know Mont Center will feel empty with him gone. Every time I glance at the flowers, a sharp pang tears through my heart.
I never thought I could miss someone so much. I miss those precious minutes each morning when we go over his schedule, and I miss the way his smile warms me all the way to my toes on days when I have the foresight to bring him coffee. It’s a small gesture he seems to appreciate. Maybe because he isn’t the type of boss to ask for such small errands.
But I have no one to bring coffee to this week.
No reason to feel giddy in the elevator on the ride up to the thirty-eighth floor.
At least work is keeping me busy. That’s an understatement. With Cash in Oklahoma, my workload has doubled. I’m finding mid-week especially chaotic, and as the end of the day arrives, I’m more than anxious to meet Les. She’s probably tapping her fingers waiting for me right now, since I was supposed to meet her for dinner twenty minutes ago.
Purse in hand, I’m passing the conference room on my way to the elevator, but the sound of Cash’s voice halts me in my tracks. His sexy tenor is coming from beyond the ajar door.
When did he get back? He isn’t due home for a few more days. A flutter of excitement goes off in my belly, and I raise my hand to knock. That’s when another voice freezes me before my fist reaches the door. A woman’s voice. No, not just any woman, but his wife’s.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I realize how odd it is that I know her voice that well. I’ve grown familiar with all things Cash, including Monica Montgomery.
I should walk away. Should mind my own damn business. I already know I won’t. Peeking through the space between the door and the frame, I see Cash standing with his arms crossed, facing his wife.
And me.
It’s too late to duck and evade. His gaze catches mine, and realization jolts through me because that’s not Cash. I’m stunned as usual that I can tell by a single glance the difference between him and his brother.
I don’t know what I just stumbled upon, since I didn’t catch what they were saying. Before Kaden can call me out on eavesdropping, I hurry toward the elevator and press the down button. The floor is empty. The day late.
And that fucking elevator decides now is the time to climb all thirty-eight floors before reaching me. Flicking my gaze toward the conference room, I find Kaden watching me. The door is wide open now, and I spy Monica standing behind him, eyes downcast. The strong, commanding woman I equate with Cash’s wife is absent. Folding herself in her arms, she gnaws on her lower lip.
The ding of the lift saves me, and I rush inside and jab the button for the atrium level. My heart thumps hard against my chest the whole way down, refusing to calm until I’m out the doors of Mont Center and on my way to the restaurant.
I can’t help but look over my shoulder at least once every block as I stride down the sidewalk. Part of me is certain Kaden will come after me and demand to know why I was listening to what was obviously a private conversation. Even though I didn’t catch a word of it, the tension in the air was palpable.
And odd.
Still processing what just happened in the dregs of my mind, I find Lesley waiting at our favorite table. Sure enough, she’s tapping her black-painted nails on the wood surface.
“He’s working you too much,” she says, grumbling.
I slide into the seat across from her. “He’s out of town this week, so things are especially busy.” Picking up the menu, I eye her over the top. “Is something wrong? You seem cranky.”
“Just band stuff. Tensions are fucking high right now. All Zan and Garen seem to do lately is argue.” She brushes her bangs out of her eyes. “Actually, forget arguing. They’re playing tug-of-war like two toddlers in diapers.”
“Aren’t they best friends?”
“They’ll go back to being best buds after the gig, I’m sure. There’s just too much pressure right now to get our sound out there.”
My cell dings, and I fish it from my purse as Les peruses her menu, even though she always orders the French dip.
Cash: I miss you like hell. What are you up to?
I bite back a sad smile. He hasn’t texted me once since he left. Any correspondence we’ve had has been related to business. I’m not sure how to feel about his text.
Me: I’m having dinner with Les.
Cash: Your friend in the band?
Me: Yeah.
Cash: Can I text you later?
Frowning, I hover my thumbs over the screen, remembering the last time we exchanged texts. The last time we spoke over the phone, when I came with his voice ringing through my ears.
Me: I don’t think that’s a good idea. We can’t keep doing this.
A full minute passes, but he doesn’t text back. I despise myself for the flood of disappointment rushing through me. Putting an end to this—whatever this is—is for the best. I lift my head and find Lesley watching me.
“You been holding out on me?” Her question lifts her dark brows.
My cell dings again, and I’m dying to glance down and read his message, but I don’t—not with Les giving me the eye the way she is.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean who’s the guy?”
The urge is too strong, and I lower my head and take in his words.
Cash: I know we shouldn’t be doing this.
And it’s as simple as that. He knows it, and I know it, yet here we are, continuously playing with fire. We might as well douse ourselves with lighter fluid at this rate.
“All right, Jules. Spill.”
Shit. She’s not going to let this drop. As I slip my cell into my purse, I consider confiding in her. It’s not that I don’t trust her. She’ll listen without judgment, and she won’t tell a soul. The problem is I’m ashamed of myself for being so weak. For jumping back onto the same dangerous ride I just got off of in Oklahoma.
The waitress stops at our table to take our orders, and I don’t know whether to thank her, or curse her timing. I order shrimp scampi, and Les goes for her usual.
“So, are you gonna make me play the guessing game?” Les asks after the waitress leaves with our menus and dinner orders.
“I’m not seeing anyone.” That much is true. The sexual tension between Cash and me is all-consuming, but we’ve never even kissed.
“Is it the hottie who owns the club?” she says, completely ignoring my denial.
I swallow hard, almost squirming at how close she is to the truth.
“It is him. I knew it.”
I’m already shaking my head, the truth sticking in my throat. Another swallow dislodges it, because she’s my best friend, and I need to tell someone. “It’s my boss.”
And just like that, the playfulness melts from her face. “Isn’t he married?”
It takes me five long seconds to answer. “Yes.”
“Jesus, Jules.” Her tone might be harsh, but sympathy underlies her expression. Because that’s who Les is. The most non-judgmental and caring person I know.
“I met him on the plane here. We had a…connection. But I didn’t know he was married.”
“You know I love you,” she says, leaning forward, “and I know you’re still hurting after what happened with Chris, but rebounding with your boss is the absolute worst thing you can do. There are so many other rebound-guys out there. Hell, I know Garen would help you take your mind off Chris, if you wanted him to. He’s a manwhore, sure, but he’s the most caring guy I’ve—”
“Les, it’s not rebound.”
In order to rebound, you still have to want your ex. The harsh truth is I barely think about Chris at all anymore.
“Then what is it? I mean, you’re not in love with the guy, right?”
I can’t answer. Because I can’t speak. Even worse, I can’t mask the truth washing over my face, turning my cheeks a deep shade of pink. A few rapid blinks of my eyes stave off the threat of shameful tears.
“Holy shit, Jules. You’re in love with him?”
“I’ve never felt this way before,” I say, shuddering out a breath. “Not even with Chris.”
“Does he feel the same?”
“I don’t know. I think so.” Lowering my attention to the napkin I’m shredding in my fingers, I add, “There are issues in his marriage that I can’t go into.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
I shake my head. “We haven’t done anything.”
Yet. The word echoes through my mind.
“Jules, I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but you’re my best friend and I care about you too much to not give it to you straight. You need to get out of this situation pronto.”
“He’s my boss, Les. Neither one of us expected this.”
“Then find a new job. Walking away now might hurt like hell, but imagine how much worse it’ll hurt when shit hits the fan.”
She’s right. And it’s nothing I haven’t already told myself a hundred times.
“I’m not sure I can walk away.”
“I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but you need to. Just rip it off like a bandaid.” She reaches across the table and grabs my hand. “Because married men don’t leave their wives.”
And that right there is the biggest truth of all. The last thing I want is to become a cliché; the mistress sleeping with her boss, forever waiting for him to leave his wife.