Chapter 13

13

L IZ

My heart drums like a cavalry in my chest.

I don't know where to go.

Should I go back to him? Or to my seat? Should I just warn him his ex is here?

And, um… I know that she's his ex because I've looked her up?

What should I do?

The clamor in the foyer makes me dizzy. Running a vacant stare around the room, I spot him in the corner waiting for me.

There's still time to go to him, take my champagne glass from him, down it quickly, and ask him to return to our seats.

It sounds like a great plan, and I make a beeline for him, convinced I'll make it on time when someone beats me to the punch.

A man approaches him and introduces himself.

Yes, that's right.

A man rocking a sharp suit stretches his hand out, and David looks at him with a glint of curiosity in his eyes but also reserved and somewhat stiff.

He sets my drink down and shakes the man's hand before his unexpected guest pivots, and I slow down.

Is this man the, um… the oil tycoon?

I come to a full stop.

They exchange words, and from the man's gestures, I understand he's talking about his future wife, who happens to be David's ex-wife.

Oh, shit.

I better go inside.

I don't want to be a part of this. Not only do I know who these people are, but I'm also not supposed to be seen with David in public.

But this is more than that.

Way more than that.

This is his ex-wife we're talking about.

The vengeful woman who did everything she could to make his life miserable a few years ago.

Sure, she moved on, but even so, I don't want to be there when she returns from the toilet.

I barely finish my thought when someone walks past me, almost knocking me over, and the oil tycoon's eyes shift in my direction, or rather Samantha Rove's direction, who quickly closes the gap between herself and the two men.

Her fiancee announces the presence of his future wife, prompting David to lift his eyes and spot me.

It's impossible to move away now.

Our eyes lock, and while he has no reaction, he doesn't seem thrilled with the idea of me making myself scarce.

I'm still frozen, a few feet away from them, not knowing what to do, when Samantha approaches David and her future husband.

The atmosphere seems cordial despite the fact that David doesn't make an effort to flash a smile. He seems okay with seeing them, not angry, and not caring about them either.

His eyes are more on me than them, and again, I see no indication that he wants me gone.

I think they're asking him if he is here alone, and he says he's here with a friend.

He makes a small gesture toward me, and that's my cue. I set myself in motion and strut to them under the curious eyes of the woman I chatted with in the bathroom.

She doesn't hide her surprise.

"We met in the restroom," she says when I pull up in front of the group and David introduces me to them.

"Elizabeth Fox," he says, and we shake hands, although I'm having a hard time remembering Samantha's future husband's name.

His name is something like Jonas Welsh. Or John Welsh. It didn't even stick with me when I read the article about their upcoming nuptials.

And now, things are getting worse.

I can't focus, panic swirling in my chest.

"I didn't know you were here with David," Samantha says with the kind of insinuating familiarity that makes my hair stand on end.

"I didn't know you two were acquaintances," I say, playing stupid.

"Who is she?" Samantha asks David.

After years of matrimonial war and the finality of a divorce, she still sounds like a jealous wife.

"I'm his new assistant," I blurt out, fully knowing no one will believe me.

Although Jonas or John seems to want to believe me.

Or maybe he wants to deescalate what seems to morph into a hostile encounter.

Samantha shifts his eyes to David, a questioning look creasing her eyebrows.

"Assistant? What is she doing here?"

He only stays silent for a second before uttering words with no emotion in his voice.

"I'm in New York doing business. And we're invited to a business dinner tonight," he says and picks up my drink from the table before handing it to me, visibly irritated.

The woman has none of it.

No one would believe him, and not because what he just said is not believable, but because I look more like a bride than a mousy assistant.

The only thing missing is the bouquet of peonies.

Her eyes dive deep into mine, her expression more than telling.

The only thing still unclear to her is whether I'm one of those ‘paid' women his ex-husband used to enjoy a lot or whether I am more.

That's the riddle I'm trying to solve too.

She peels her stare away from me and looks at him.

"Where exactly is that dinner?"

She's nosy now, but he knows her ways, so he quickly tosses the name of a fancy hotel restaurant.

Whether she believes him or not is anyone's guess.

My money is on she's not buying it. But I doubt she can fact check that.

And even if she did, he couldn't be bothered with her findings.

"Too bad you have plans for tonight. We could've had dinner together," she says, and a few more words are exchanged along the same lines before he excuses himself and signals to me to follow him inside.

There is no way in hell having dinner with them will happen.

"It was nice meeting you, Elizabeth," she says, and I'm not believing a word.

Her future husband seems nicer but also clueless about what he's getting into. But we all have to learn somehow.

I walk next to him in perfect silence, and once we're out of their line of sight, he comes up with a new plan.

LIZ

We leave the place before the final act.

Under different circumstances, I'd be concerned that he wanted to leave because his ex showed up.

But in this case, his idea of cutting our losses and just exiting the place seems like the sensible choice.

I can tell he's not thrilled about running into his ex tonight.

The odds of running into her and John––it's John, I've learned––were slim, but they were still viable odds.

I don't ask any questions, and he doesn't provide additional information.

Instead, he takes my hand and walks me out before hauling a taxi.

We vanish like two runaways, not looking back, scrubbing our brains clean of the memory of the last half an hour.

There truly hasn't been much love between these two people. Whatever has brought them together is still making them nauseous whenever they look at each other.

We dine in a hotel restaurant, in a dimly lit corner, at a table for two, with quiet music pouring from the speakers and no surprises of any kind.

The food is tasty. Grilled fish and vegetables for me and a juicy steak for him.

We eat in silence––he's sunk in thought while I'm concerned with my dress.I manage not to drop food on it and say no to dessert because I don't want to push my luck.

Overall, things were all right today. Although the last hour or so wasn't that great.

I try to focus on the positives.

The horseback riding. The hot sex. The gifts.

Oh, the gifts.

I didn't catch Samantha checking the jewelry. But can you imagine someone, anyone, believing I'm his assistant?No assistant wears jewelry worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.

He seems satisfied with the food but not how our evening ended.

Sucking in a long breath, he pushes his fingers through his hair before sliding his elbows onto the table, his gaze trailing down.

The waitress comes by and asks if we want anything else.

He looks at me.

"Nothing for me, thank you."

He asks for another drink for himself, which arrives quickly.

He looks like someone about to confess to something, and I can see how moving away from that woman hasn't entirely improved his mood.

"Are we going back?" I ask, stating the obvious––he seems so consumed with what has happened this evening that there is no other option than to go home, have a good night's sleep, and ask him to take me to the airport in the morning.

He shoots me an inquisitive look.

"Back?"

"Yeah. I have a plane to catch tomorrow morning," I say, studying his face.

"You mean tomorrow afternoon."

"It's all the same to me," I say, not peeling my eyes away from him.

"I hope you're not mad," he says, evading my eyes and pondering something.

"Me? Mad? Why would I be mad?"

‘You're mad. Say it,' the voice in my head barks, sucking at giving advice.

"You seem more affected than I am," I say, diverting his attention away from me.

"I made a mistake with this woman," he says, and the chatter inside my head subsides.

This is the moment.

This is our big fucking moment.

"She's not the sweetest, most caring person I've ever met," I comment, and he cracks a smile.

"You don't say. What did she say to you in the restroom?"

"Nothing. We talked about my dress."

He nods and takes a swig of hard liquor. He needs it, apparently.

"You know she didn't buy your story," I comment.

He swallows hard and winces because of the alcohol.

"I didn't tell her so she could buy it. I just wanted to end the conversation."

Pursing my lips, I tip my eyes down.

"What?" he says.

I lift my gaze.

"She's not the best person to know about you and me."

He shrugs carelessly before his jaw locks.

"We won't be able to do this forever," he says, his words giving me pause.

My heart beats ferociously.

"I'm not ready to date," I say. "Are you?"

Laughing quietly, he shakes his head in disbelief.

"I love your sense of humor, Elizabeth."

I give him a smile.

"It's true."

"I know it's true. I'm not ready to date either," he says, tilting his head back a little, narrowing his eyes and cocking an eyebrow at me.

"She'd look stupid if she started to spread rumors about me," he says.

"They're not rumors," I remind him.

"That's true. But it's my word against hers."

He mulls over something for a second.

"Nah, she won't do it. She has no reason to meddle in my affairs."

"She wanted to know about my dress before knowing that you and I were somewhat connected. She's the definition of someone wanting to meddle in people's affairs."

He tips his chin down, his eyes on me.

"What did you tell her?"

"I told her it was a gift. And she commented that whoever had given it to me must've had an exquisite taste in clothing. If she knows anything about you, she can probably figure out you were that person."

He shrugs a shoulder, and our conversation stalls.

I wish we could continue chatting.

"I figure she doesn't know about the woman you had bought the gift for," I say.

"No one knows about that woman except you."

There's not a hint of flattery in his voice.

He's just stating a fact.

"You hooked up with Samantha because of that woman,' I say, and he searches my eyes.

"Yeah… I did. And it was a mistake. And boy, did I pay for it?" he says with dark humor.

"She seems like a skilled collector."

He laughs.

"She is good at that. And you know what? She wasn't even hurt in the process. She was so used to cutting onerous deals that having me as her husband wasn't that much different."

His smile fades as he continues.

"She gave me something when I was down. And bitter as I was, I accepted it because I wanted to prove to the world that I could step onto my soul and live in a world of soulless people… I was just like everybody else."

A pang of emotion messes with his voice before he recollects himself and swiftly backs away from that.

It's still a sensitive topic.

He still hurts because of it.

Swiftly, he makes a dismissive gesture.

"It doesn't matter. Everybody gets what they deserve in the end," he says in a dull voice.

"I hope that doesn't apply to me, though," I quickly comment, bringing his focus to me again.

He studies me with a tormented, longing look on his face like he's about to decide my fate.

Either free me from himself or condemn me to a life of misery, and it's too late not to be affected by whatever he opts for.