Arrogant Playboy(60)

If this is love, it’s nothing like I expected. It’s gentle and warm and unassuming.

Dr. Brentwood texted me yesterday during my meeting with Dane and Odessa. He said Eva was doing better. Making progress. Not knowing how long I’ll have Sadie burns through me and saturates my disposition with a blanket of rage.

“Where’s Odessa?” I ask Mathilde as I head to the car.

Her lips purse as her fingers knit nervously. “She left, monsieur.”

“What do you mean, she left? I saw her upstairs ten minutes ago.”

“She asked Bronson to take her to the airport.”

I spin toward the porte-cochere. The Town Car that normally waits there is gone.

“She cleared it with Monsieur Townsend,” Mathilde adds.

Mathilde silently excuses herself, and I stand in the foyer staring at a vase of flawless white roses on a pretentious marble table.

“What’d you do to upset her?” Dane lingers in the doorway to his study. He’s not dressed in a suit today, which serves to remind me that we’re not going to work. We’re planning a funeral.

My jaw sets. I don’t need to explain anything to him. It’s not worth my breath, and I don’t need to piss off the last person on the face of the earth who gives two shits about me.

“Told you not to sleep with her.” Dane widens his stance, staring me down.

I don’t need his disapproving glare to make me feel like a piece of shit. I’m already there.

“Let’s plan this thing,” I say. “Uncle Leo wouldn’t want us standing around. He’d stick a mop in our hands and tell us to get the fuck on with our lives.”

Dane’s chin tucks and his hands go to his hips. “Yeah. You’re right. Thought we could do a private memorial. We’re the only family he has left, and it’s what he always said he wanted.”

“Fine with me.”

***

I return from the funeral home with Dane after lunchtime. Only then does it hit me that Odessa’s gone. She fled.

I succeeded in pushing her away.

Swaddling Sadie in my arms, I sink down in a chair and check my phone. Several delivery confirmations pop up in my email. All the nursery items Odessa ordered earlier in the week have been delivered to my building.

Holding Sadie washes me with unexpected peace.

Thumbing through my contacts until I get to Odessa, I press her number and lift the phone to my ear.

I owe her an apology.

She doesn’t answer.

I listen to her greeting until the end, soaking in the sound of her voice, and then I hang up.

Like every woman who’s ever come before her, she’s better off without me.





Chapter Thirty-Two




ODESSA



“You sound depressed.” Carly chomps her gum on the other end of the phone. Desperate for the comfort of a familiar face, I called her the second I landed in New York. “You okay?”

“Been a long day. Got to the airport way too early. Just tired.”

I don’t tell her about Beckham and the outburst and the sex or any of it. It’s irrelevant. Over and done. An error in judgment not worth rehashing.

“Do you want to come over tonight then?” I inject a lighter tone in my voice to hopefully throw her off. “Feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“Hm.” Carly hesitates. “Actually, I was supposed to meet up with some people from work.”

“Oh,” I sigh. “That’s fine.”

Heading toward baggage claim and hailing a cab shortly after, I jet home with intentions of holing up for the weekend. Halfway home, I see a missed call from Beckham. No text. No voicemail.

I don’t call him back, mostly on principle. I didn’t fly all the way back home just to accept his apology so he can feel better about being a giant asshole.

***

Saturday I meet Jeremiah for coffee at his request. I briefly mention the Salt Lake City trip, and he asks questions and pretends the answers don’t bother him.

Slipping his hand across the table to cover mine, our eyes lock.

“I miss us, Sam,” he says. “I want you back. I need you back. Going a week at a time without talking to you? I can’t. I can’t do it anymore. I need an answer.”

He flashes a bleached smile that makes me happy and sad all at once.

“Excuse me. I’m so sorry.” A middle-aged woman taps him on the shoulder, her phone in hand. She has Midwestern tourist written all over her face, and she reminds me of my mom. “You’re Jeremiah Crawford, the chef, right?”

“Yes, ma’am, I am.” He twists to face her, flipping his charm on like a switch.

“I saw you on a billboard in Times Square this morning. Your show is my favorite,” she gushes, placing a trembling hand across her heart. “Would you mind taking a picture with me and my husband?”