I’ve screwed up so bad.
So I stop at the first big hotel I see and toss my keys to the valet. I don’t give a damn where I stay, so long as they have a room for me.
Of course we have a room, Mr. Reed! Would you like the presidential suite? Of course, we will be happy to, sir. Will there be anything else, sir?
Normally a cocky smile would split my face, and I’d wink at the female front desk clerk until she flushed and fluttered her eyelashes at me. The phrase “Isn’t my life so fucking awesome?” would ring in my head as I took the keycard and walked away to the elevator. If she was pretty enough, I’d hint that she should come up and have a drink after her shift ended.
But now I look at the woman with about the same interest I’d show a piece of plywood. And when I take the key and walk away, the emptiness in my heart is like acid. The other guests stare at me, and it only intensifies the hollowness deep inside.
They think I have everything.
They couldn’t be more wrong.
I pick up a new cap from the hotel gift shop and walk along the street. My phone’s off, although it sits in my pocket. That and my plastic are all I have on me as I wander around, letting my feet take me wherever.
My gaze falls on a couple with their arms linked. The girl is a brunette, with a pair of square black librarian glasses. Her pale hand contrasts sharply against her man’s olive-toned skin.
They aren’t anybody famous. They aren’t anybody rich. I’d bet my Ferrari they’ve never lived in a house with twice the number of bedrooms as people. They’re just regular, everyday people, smiling and leaning into each other as they step along and share a joke.
They’re happy and content.
And I’d give all I have to switch places with them.
I walk for a while and somehow end up in front of a jewelry store owned by Kiyoko Hamada, the woman who designed Paige’s engagement ring. There are more exquisite items on display in the window. White pearls, diamond earrings and necklace sets sparkle under the lights. The pearls are so big and lustrous, they seem to glow from within.
When I commissioned the engagement ring, I had simple hopes for my life. A loving wife. Maybe a child or two. Most people find those attainable, but not me. To me, they’re big dreams, and seem harder than flying to the moon.
Suddenly the door to the shop opens, and the last person I ever thought I’d see at a jeweler walks out. My cousin, Dane Pryce, in all his glory.
His dark hair is neatly cropped, and he’s in a navy blue bespoke suit. Grimness pours off him, although it’s not as bad as usual. Maybe he’s mellowing in his old age.
“Dane?” I say, hardly believing it. “What are you doing here?”
The icy blue eyes narrow. “I could ask the same. Trying to stock up on peace offerings for the times you’re going to screw up?”
My mood snaps from shock to pissed off. Why do I even talk to this guy? “You’re such a fucking asshole.”
“At least I don’t go to strip clubs while I’m engaged. Nor am I stupid enough to get caught.”
I grind my teeth. “Are you shopping for a ring?” I say, not wanting to get into my failing personal life. He has no other reason to come here. He isn’t the type to give women lots of expensive jewelry just because.
Nothing changes on his face, except for the subtle color on his cheeks.
“Son of a bitch.” I chuckle. “You are!”
His stare grows colder. “And you? Are you going to go in, or stand out here all day running your lips?”
“Nah. I was just out for a stroll.”
“Well, exercise time is over. I’ll take you to your car.”
Normally I would refuse. But since my Ferrari’s several miles away—much farther than he’s expecting—I say, “Sure. Why not?”
Once we’re both in his Bentley, I tell him where my car is. He narrows his eyes. “That’s at least fifteen blocks away.”
I give him my most angelic smile. “You did offer…”
He starts driving. He stays just below the speed limit, which reminds me of an octogenarian with oversized knuckles white around the steering wheel.
“What happened to your Lamborghini?” I ask.
“I got bored with it.”
I raise my eyebrows. He loves that car more than anything else in the world. If he could, he would’ve married the thing.
“So, you and Paige are going to split,” Dane says, his eyes on the road. “True, or gossip rag bullshit?”
“Jeez. Have you been stalking me?”
“Hardly. I can’t get away from you.” His mouth curls in distaste. “It’s all over the news, for one.”
I say nothing. Paige’s and my situation is just too painful and raw to talk about…especially to someone like Dane, who has the emotional range of a can opener.