When I Was Yours

Then, she presses a button on the phone and flicks stony eyes to me.

I watch as she looks me up and down, a sneer appearing on her perfectly made-up face.

It’s then I remember that I’m still wearing Adam’s old Rolling Stones T-shirt and my ratty old jean shorts that I might have had since I was seventeen. I haven’t shaved my legs today, and my three-day dirty hair is in a messy knot on top of my head. I quite possibly still have ice cream on my face as I didn’t look in a mirror after cleaning it off.

Oh God.

I’ve just marched into Adam’s building, looking like a homeless person. Great. Just effing great.

“Can I…help you?” she says with as much distaste as is shown in her expression.

Maybe I should just back up and leave the building. I still have time.

No, I’m here now, and I need to know what the hell he’s playing at.

Anger wins out over vanity this time.

Just pretend you belong here and don’t currently look like a hobo.

“I’m here to see Adam,” I say with as much confidence as I can.

“Adam?” She frowns.

“Yes. Adam Gunner, the guy whose name is on that sign hanging above your head.” I point my finger in the direction of the sign.

“I’m well aware of who Mr. Gunner is and what his first name is,” she says icily. “Now, what I want to know from you is, do you have an appointment?”

“No, I don’t have an appointment—”

“Then, you can’t see him,” she says smugly, cutting me off. “No one sees Mr. Gunner without an appointment.”

She pulls her headset off, swings her chair around, and gets up, walking over to the desk behind her.

Okay, now, she has seriously pissed me off. She’s like a fucking guard dog that I can’t get past.

“Hey, Pit Bull Barbie.” I slam my hands down on my hips.

She turns slowly to face me. The look on her face is pretty pissed off.

Like I care right now.

“Are you talking to me?” Her eyes narrow, her lips twisting.

“Apparently so.” My hands leave my hips to bang down on the fancy glass top, praying to God I don’t crack it. I lean forward. “Now, be a good little receptionist and call upstairs to tell Mr. Gunner that his wife is here, and she wants to see him now.”

Pit Bull Barbie’s eyes widen at the term wife. She actually stumbles back a little, grabbing hold of the desk behind her. “W-wife?” she stutters.

She seems pretty affected by this news.

A stabbing thought suddenly enters my head.

Maybe she knows Adam like I know Adam. Maybe she’s his girlfriend—or at the very least fucking him.

Oh God.

I know nothing of Adam’s life now. He could have a girlfriend, and she could be it.

And that stabbing sensation enters my chest and centers on my heart, piercing straight through and slashing from side to side.

I have to curl my hands around the edge of the desk to stop from falling over.

“Yes. His wife.” I hear the tremor in my voice.

Come on, Evie. This shouldn’t matter to you.

But it does. It really fucking does.

She lets out a sarcastic laugh. “Yeah, and I’m the next Queen of England. Mr. Gunner is not married. I would know if he were.”

Yep, they’re fucking. And I think I’m going to hurl.

Jesus, this hurts like a motherfucker.

I let my pain morph into anger. The images of her and Adam together are aiding that.

“Well, you might want to check your facts because I am, without a doubt, his wife. Now, do your job, and call upstairs. Tell my husband that I’m here to see him, and be quick about it.” I flick my fingers at her in a derogatory manner as I take a step back.

Okay, maybe that was overkill with the my-husband bit. And I honestly don’t ever treat people like I’ve just treated Pit Bull Barbie here. Being in the service industry, I’m treated like this regularly, so I always make sure to be respectful to people. But she’s really pissing me off, and if she and Adam are—well, whatever. I just don’t like her.

She strides back to the desk in front of me, sits her ass in the chair, and picks up her earpiece before putting it in. Then, she presses a button on her phone. “Mark, I have a woman here claiming to be…well, she says she’s Mr. Gunner’s…wife.” She flicks a look at me. “To be honest, she…” She spins her chair away from me, like she thinks doing that will mean I can’t hear her. “Well, she looks like a homeless person. Maybe she’s a mental patient who’s escaped from a facility. Should I call security?”

There’s a long silence while I stare at the back of Pit Bull Barbie’s head.

“Well, yes, she is small, I suppose. And she does have blonde hair, but it’s kind of disgusting—fine, okay.” She shoots me a glance over her shoulder. “What’s your name?”

I fold my arms over my chest, letting out a sigh. “Evie.”

She relays my name down the phone, and we go back to silence again.

Maybe I should just get my cell out and call Adam myself. Now that I think of it, I probably should have done that in the beginning.

“Are you sure?” she says. “Because—I’m sorry, what?” she gasps, her back going rigid. Then, more silence. “Fine,” she snaps. “Tell Mr. Gunner I hear his message loud and clear.”

She spins her chair back to me. Looking like she’s just been slapped on the face, her cheeks bright red, she bites out the words to me, “Take the elevator to the eighth floor. Mark Evans, Mr. Gunner’s assistant, will meet you there.”

“Thank you,” I say primly, giving her a smug look even though I really want to give her the middle finger.

I swivel on my heel and march over to the elevator. I press the call button. The doors immediately open. I step inside and press the button for the eighth floor, which also happens to be the top floor.

The door closes, and I crumble against the elevator wall.

Holy shit!

I can’t believe I just did that.

I just announced to Adam’s receptionist—and quite possibly a woman he’s fucking—that I’m married to him.

Me and my big mouth.

I really shouldn’t have done that. I can’t imagine that she’s going to keep that piece of news to herself.

And Adam, though not celebrity famous, is a notable person. He’s the head of Gunner Entertainment, for God’s sake. It’s newsworthy.

If this gets out…I’m screwed.

And as the elevator ascends, taking me closer to Adam, my stomach drops right back down to the ground.

It’s Christmas—well, almost. It’s Christmas Eve. Adam and I are at the supermarket, shopping for a turkey and all the trimmings.

We’ve left our food shopping pretty late, but between school and working every available shift I can at Grady’s in the run up to Christmas, I haven’t had a chance to get to the store. And Dad hasn’t had time to get out as Casey’s been sick with a touch of the flu, but she’s on the mend now.

Max has gone home for the holidays. I got the impression that he didn’t want to, but he had no choice.

Adam isn’t going home, so he is spending Christmas with us. As far as I know, he hasn’t spoken to his mother since she came in October. Adam hasn’t told me what went down with his mother after I had left, but I get the feeling that it wasn’t good. If he wants to talk about it, then I’ll listen, but I’m not going to push him.