Bedwrecker(23)

All or nothing.





Maggie

My tiny beach bungalow looks like love has thrown up all over it.

Literally.

I’m not kidding.

Red foil hearts hang from the ceiling. Bowls of candy kisses and those stupid conversation hearts are everywhere. You know—the ones that read, “Kiss Me,” or “Hubba Hubba,” or better yet, “Be Mine.”

Seriously, I’m not sure in my gray state of mind I can handle this right now.

My thoughts are interrupted by the familiar tune of my cell.

Sighing, I try to hold all the grocery bags with one arm while I pull my ringing phone from my purse and look at the screen.

The name Elliot flashes before me. Elliot owns a men’s store on Melrose Avenue that only sells jeans.

Not suits.

Just jeans.

And much to my dismay—no, scratch that, I’m trying to be positive, so I will say much to my delight—he only wears denim. And I mean he wears denim—like from head to toe.

Elliot’s sense of style aside, I went out with him last week, and we had a pretty okay time. More than okay; I almost had fun. Yet, when he tried to kiss me, I found myself pulling away. Feeling almost blue, I couldn’t let anyone else touch my lips because I wanted to keep remembering Keen’s lips on mine.

Honestly, I can’t take this state I’m in. I need to forget him. And yet, I can’t. It’s never taken me this long to get over a breakup. Usually within three days I’m on to the next guy, a week at the most. Besides, what Keen and I had doesn’t even qualify as a breakup.

Ring.

Ring.

Elliot’s name continues to flash on my screen. I still don’t answer it. I like him. I do. Still, I don’t answer his call.

Don’t look at me like that.

It has nothing to do with him.

Seriously, I can’t.

My hands are full.

Even though it’s been almost two months, I still crave Keen’s touch. Man, letting go of something that I never really had is so much harder than I thought it would be. Than it should be. And it’s pissing me off.

Working has helped a lot. I’ve thrown myself all in. I’m a fashion merchandiser for Simon Warren. It might be a few levels under fashion merchandiser, more like a grunt. And sure, I got the job through nepotism. Still, I’m really good at working with men’s apparel as opposed to women’s.

I think I finally found my niche.

Simon Warren sells the sexiest men’s dress apparel. Fitted shirts. Flat-front pants with the lowest waists. Tailored jackets. Ties in the brightest colors and boldest patterns. Always on trend. Always modern. Always so yummy. I can’t help but talk them up. After all, I’ve been around these lustful objects my entire life.

You see, my mother started working for the company when it first opened its doors right here in California. And that was before I was even born. When I wasn’t even quite a teen, she moved us to New York City to launch the women’s division, and I mourned the loss of menswear. I’m pretty certain she did too because not even ten years later, she moved back to West Hollywood.

Once I finished college, and got fired a couple of dozen times, I moved to California to be closer to her. And since my grandmother had passed and left me her beach house, it made sense. So for the past few years I’ve lived in Laguna Beach, and up until two months ago earned a living by lifeguarding until I decided it was time to reenter the real world.

Sadly, my mother had to return to New York City last year when the company started experiencing financial distress. I really miss her.

That’s all about to change, though, with Cam now at the helm. I just know he is going to turn things around.

Rounding the corner into the galley kitchen, all I can see is food. Bags of chips and containers of salsa are on the counter, trays of something or other that once had faces are sitting on the stove, and something that smells a lot like hot dogs or wieners are in the oven.

Gross.

Setting my bags full of kale dumplings, veggie sticks, hummus, pita chips, and black bean dip down, my eyes land on the massive stack of heart-shaped boxes of chocolates. The ones that contain all those fillings that as a kid I poked my finger inside of before I ate one, then left the ones I didn’t like in the box for someone else.

And the covering of the boxes is satin.

Satin!

My blood starts to boil. “Makayla!” I scream over the music. Not just any music, either. “Little Things” by One Direction. A love song.

A. LOVE. SONG.

At an Anti–Valentine’s Day party!

It’s outrageous.

When Makayla doesn’t answer, I yell even louder for her to account for what the hell she is up to.

The timer on the oven dings and I open it. On a tray are at least two dozen hot dogs wrapped in crescent rolls. I turn it off and shut the door. “Maakkaayyllaa!” I shout one more time.