“Would you like anything else?” the waiter asked.
Maggie flinched. She’d been so buried in the past she’d forgotten where she was. She quickly recovered and smiled. “No, just the check, thank you.”
She returned to the convention floor, but after stirring up all those unhappy memories, she was unable to enjoy herself. She went back up to the suite to take a nap, but she couldn’t sleep. She was awash in misery and clueless as to why she couldn’t just flick away the past, shape up, straighten her shoulders and power through this dilemma.
After fixing herself a cup of tea, she sat by the window and stared out at the calming view of ocean water and windswept sky.
The fact was, she wanted to be with Connor, even though she dreaded attending the gala. So brushing aside the dread, she focused on her present predicament. She didn’t have a dress!
She mentally sifted through the practical issues before her, as if they were written on a list she could check off. First, she didn’t have a proper gown or even an ultrafancy cocktail dress to wear because she’d given away all of her dress-up clothes when she left Ashcroft. For good reason. They all reminded her of horrible, embarrassing times spent with her ex-husband.
Second, now that she’d given everything away, she couldn’t afford to run out and buy something new, especially something so fancy. Not to mention the shoes and jewelry to wear with it.
Third, when she first made the deal with Connor, she honestly hadn’t thought it would matter whether she showed up for the gala or not. But they had grown so close during the past week, she didn’t want to disappoint him.
But that brought her to issue number four. The real problem. She hated going to formal events. Hated dancing. Feared what would happen if she did the wrong thing. Over time, the fear and hate had grown into a phobia. She’d spent way too many years attending monthly charity balls and society dances with Ashcroft, trying to impress his mother and all their rich, snooty friends, knowing that no matter what she did, it was always going to be the wrong thing.
Besides the big ugly result of the final event with Ashcroft, there had been plenty of other nasty repercussions that had occurred after she’d made some miniscule faux pas at a society dance. Maggie cringed and rubbed her arms to calm the shivers she felt. She refused to dwell on the various creative, nonphysical ways her ex-husband had made her pay for her innocent social foibles.
“This is ridiculous,” she whispered. She was obviously still suffering from Post-Ashcroft Distress Syndrome, which probably wasn’t a real disease, but it should’ve been.
She really needed to snap out of it.
But she couldn’t. Because of issue number five. This gala tonight was actually important to her career. There would be people at tonight’s event who were vital industry contacts, business professionals, the very people she wanted to impress so badly. But how could she? She had nothing to wear. Which brought her right back to issue number one.
It was a vicious circle and Maggie’s head was spinning out of control.
She yawned, exhausted from worrying so much. Sitting down on the couch, she leaned back against one of the soft pillows and tried again to close her eyes for a few minutes.
The doorbell rang, waking her up. Disoriented, she had to stare at the clock for ten seconds before it registered that she’d slept for almost two hours. So much for worrying that she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep.
She ran to the door and pulled it open.