Arrogant Playboy(10)

“I don’t think he’d like that.” Her voice is airy, breathy. Like Marilyn Monroe. It’s got to be an act. There’s depth in her curious stare.

“You should stay.” Rain trickles down the window behind me. I point to an empty chair against the far wall. “It’s warm in here. And dry. And he’ll be back soon.”

And I feel like a piece of shit for sleeping with your boyfriend, even if it wasn’t my fault he didn’t tell me he was taken…so let me make it up to you.

“You want some chocolate?” I offer. She looks like she could use a few pieces. I dig into my bag and pull out a miniature Snickers. Damn Easter candy. I can never resist buying a jumbo clearance bag every spring.

“I can’t stay.” She glances around, up and down the hallway like she’s about to get caught by some invisible hall monitor.

“He’s going to be really sorry he missed you.” I’ll see to it personally.

“Please don’t tell him I stopped by.” For someone who went through the trouble of bringing him lunch, she sure doesn’t want to make a big deal of it.

I bet he’s an asshole of a boyfriend.

“O-okay.” I drop the chocolate.

Before I have a chance to say another word, the blonde girl is gone. I didn’t even get a chance to ask her name. The entire exchange replays in my head not once but twice. Something isn’t adding up. I’m sure I’m missing some important detail hidden between the lines of our conversation, but my wearied brain isn’t firing on all cylinders.

I brush it off and return to my screen. The iconic blue Facebook logo glares from the top corner. I’ve been trying to stay away from my personal account for the last two weeks for fear of seeing what Jeremiah’s been up to.

But tired and curious is a lethal combination.

I give myself five minutes. Five minutes to log in and log out and continue on my merry way.

Taking a deep breath, I sign into my account and type Jeremiah Crawford’s name in the search bar.

His profile picture is different. It used to be the two of us, fishing from the dock that extends out from his grandparents’ lake house last Thanksgiving. Now it’s a picture of Jeremiah standing on some red carpet with a white backdrop covered in some bourbon company’s logo.

Interesting. He’s doing endorsements now.

He’s standing alone in the photo, hands in his pocket and signature approachable smile plastered across his tan face. I click through his latest pictures: Jeremiah on set, Jeremiah cooking crab legs, Jeremiah in the hair and makeup seat looking over his notes, Jeremiah posing with fans, Jeremiah signing someone’s wooden spatula.

Two weeks ago, I was falling asleep in his arms every night. Two weeks ago we were discussing honeymoon locations and the possibility of moving out to L.A. if his show were to be signed for an additional five years. Two weeks ago, we were still Jeremiah and Sam, college sweethearts chasing their dreams hand in hand the way they’d always planned.

Funny how all those years, I was certain he loved me more than I loved him. There’s always one person who loves a little bit harder than the other. I saw it in his eyes, in the way he’d talk about me to our friends, and in the way he’d fill my water bottle with extra ice every morning before I left for work or pre-toothpaste my toothbrush if he got up first.

I always thought it was him.

Guess I was wrong.

“How’s it coming?”

Beckham’s voice startles me, and I let out an audible gasp, jumping in my seat. Looking through Jeremiah’s pictures must’ve swept me out of the moment and into some misty otherworld with no concept of time or space. I’m not sure how long I stared at those photos, but it had to have been a while if Beckham’s back from lunch.

“Back so soon?” I shut the laptop on instinct. Big mistake. I should’ve played it cool, but now his gaze dances between my computer and me.

“I hope you don’t intend on billing us for whatever you were just doing,” he says.

“I’m on lunch.”

“Where’s your food?” He lingers in my doorway.

I hold up the mini Snickers, the one the woman rejected.

Beckham scoffs. “All right.”

“You missed your friend.” I could smack myself. I told the girl I wouldn’t say anything, and in a desperate moment of wanting him to stop wondering what I was just doing, I panicked and changed the subject.

“Friend?”

“Friend. Girlfriend. Whatever.”

“I told you I don’t date.”

I don’t believe him. A man who doesn’t date wouldn’t have chased me out of his building this morning, he would’ve walked away, hit the shower, and forgotten my name in the hour that followed.