Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 116232 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116232 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
It was unclear who this apology was for. My father? Me?
My voice broke as I issued the order. “Just go.”
He did as asked. He left me and the heart he’d broken completely, walking away like this was nothing more than a deal that had gone sour.
THIRTY
Noah
I stood in the emptiness of my kitchen, my hands resting on the island countertop, and wondered how the hell I’d gotten here. I didn’t remember driving home, but my Mercedes was parked in the garage.
“What the fuck did you just do?” I asked myself.
I didn’t have an answer, because my head was a total fucking mess.
I’d made mistakes before. Once, I’d misunderstood the terms of a deal and lost my client six figures on a single trade. My manager on the desk had helped me cover the loss, I’d worked hard to bounce back, and thankfully I’d been able to keep my job. I’d had terrible anxiety through that whole ordeal.
But it didn’t compare to what I was experiencing now.
My stomach was queasy, my heart raced, and I couldn’t focus on anything. Was this what a panic attack felt like? I sank to the floor, sitting with my back against one of the cabinets, and didn’t care how weird it was.
At least the tile was clean. Charlotte had mopped it only a few days ago.
“Fuck.” I pulled my knees up to my chest and rested my head in my hands.
I had the terrible suspicion the panic I felt right now wasn’t over losing my job—it was all about her. And fuck if that didn’t make me feel worse.
Her shattered expression haunted me.
I could claim I hadn’t realized she’d fallen for me, but it was a goddamn lie. I ignored every sign. Told myself repeatedly her feelings were strong, but they hadn’t grown enough to turn into love—because I needed that to be true.
If she fell in love, I’d have to end things, and I didn’t fucking want to do that.
So, I selfishly pretended it hadn’t happened until she came right out and said it, and I couldn’t avoid it anymore. It had killed me to do it, even if breaking things off with her was for the best. Her relationship with her folks was tenuous and dating me made it worse.
I couldn’t be the reason they cut her off.
Ending things with her was the noble thing to do.
Plus, any kind of future with Charlotte was hazy. I couldn’t forecast what would happen, and the unpredictability scared me. There were so many things working against us, from our age gap to her disapproving parents, to my fear of commitment. The risk of failure was steep.
You’re a fucking coward.
I couldn’t even argue against it. All my years at Hale Banking and Holding, I’d prided myself on excelling under pressure. I made quick, smart decisions, knew when to take risks and how to keep my emotions under control.
But the moment Ardy caught me with my hand up Charlotte’s shirt, it was as if my brain stopped working and fear took hold. And then when he’d fired me, I freaked the fuck out. The urge to run was so powerful, it was overwhelming, and I’d been so focused on not doing that, I’d stood there like an asshole, leaving her to deal with the whole shitshow on her own.
What did I do now? I’d never been fired before.
Until moving here, you never had a mortgage payment before either.
I had savings and could float for several months, but what then? I couldn’t really afford to stay unemployed.
I pulled out my phone and looked at the clock on the lock screen. Even without the time change, it was far too late to call anyone in New York, and this was probably a good thing. Everything was too raw right now, and calling without a game plan was a bad idea. My previous manager would wonder the real reason I was sniffing around for a job opening, sense my desperation, and in the unlikely event he had room for me, I’d have no leverage for salary negotiations.
Everything would be better if I slept on it.
In the morning, I’d have more perspective on things. I’d confront what I’d done, decide the best way forward, and take action.
I stared at my phone in my hand and, without thought, found myself composing a text message to Charlotte.
Me: I fucked up. Can we talk?
I held my breath as I waited for the ‘Delivered’ beneath my speech bubble to change to ‘Read.’
Usually, she was quick to respond, but the seconds ticked by and my dread grew. Maybe she was busy and hadn’t seen the message, or maybe she was too distraught to look at her phone.
Or maybe she’s blocked you.
I sat on the floor for an embarrassing amount of time before finally realizing a response wasn’t coming.