Tangled(61)

You know that song “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” by the Rolling Stones? It’s my new theme song.

Her lips fold against one another. Then she moves around me.

But I grab her arm.

“Let me go, Drew.”

“I can’t.” And I don’t just mean her arm.

She jerks away. “Try harder. You did it once. I’m sure you can manage it again.”

Then she walks out the door.

And I don’t follow her.





Chapter 20

OKAY. SO THAT DIDN’T GO VERY WELL.

You’re right—it was a goddamn disaster. You think I should have gone after her? Well you’re wrong. Have you ever read The Art of War by Sun Tzu? I have. It’s a book about military strategy. A good general knows when to attack. A great general knows when to pull back. To regroup.

I’ve told Kate what I needed to. Now I have to show her.

Actions win wars. Actions heal wounds. Not words. Words are cheap. Mine, in particular, have the combined value of pocket lint at the moment.

So…I have a plan. And failure’s not an option. Because this isn’t just about me, about what I want. Not anymore. It’s about what Kate wants too. And she wants me. Sure, she’s fighting it—but it’s there. Like it’s always been.

No one will ever be to Kate what I can be. And—before you take my head off—I’m not saying that because of my overdeveloped sense of confidence. I’m saying it because behind the anger, under the hurt…Kate is just as in love with me as I am with her.

Looking at her was like looking in a goddamn mirror.

So I won’t quit. I won’t throw in the towel. Not until we both have what we want.

Each other.

Hey—you know what else a great general knows how to do?

Call in the reserves.





Here’s a fact for you: Most men can’t multitask.

It’s true.

That’s why you won’t catch many guys trying to make a full-course Thanksgiving dinner. That’s the reason mothers all over the world come home to a disaster area when they leave their kids with the hubby for a few hours. Most of us can only really focus on one thing at a time.

Most of us—but not me.

Before I’m out the door of the office, I’ve got Erin on the cell. No, I’m not a slave driver. If you’re an assistant to one of the most successful I-bankers in New York City, late-night calls are part of the job description. Now that my head has been removed from its weeklong vacation up my ass, I need to find out if I have any clients left to work with.

Lucky for me, I do.

“I hope you can grow a third kidney, Drew,” Erin says. “Because if Matthew, Jack, and Steven ever need one at the same time, you’re going to have to hand them over.”

Apparently, they’re the ones who’ve been covering for me while I was making that permanent dent in my couch.

“Book Jack a table at Scores this weekend. On me.”

Nothing says thank you like a prepaid stripper.

As for Matthew and Steven—I’m going to need to think about that one. I have a feeling titty bars are outlawed on the Dark Side.

After Erin updates me about work, I tell her to clear my schedule and give her a list of the things I’ll need for tomorrow. I’ve got a hell of a day planned—but it’s got nothing to do with investment banking.

By the time we hang up, I’m walking through the door of my apartment. Jesus Christ. I cover my nose with my hand. How the hell did I live with that smell for seven days?

Oh, that’s right—I was a vegetable.

I take a good look around. Garbage bags line one wall. Empty bottles are stacked on the table. Dirty dishes fill the sink, and the air reeks like that stale scent that seeps through your car vents when you’re stuck in traffic behind a garbage truck. Alexandra did her best to clean up, but it’s still a disaster.

Kind of like my life at the moment, huh? How’s that for symbolism.

I walk to the bedroom where I can actually breathe through my nose. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the phone. Remember those reserves I mentioned? Time to call them up.

I pick up the phone and dial. A soothing voice greets me after the second ring. The perfect combination of strength and comfort, and I answer back.

“Hi, Mom.”

You thought I was calling someone else, didn’t you?

Deep down—I’m a momma’s boy. I’m man enough to admit it. And trust me, I’m not the only one. Explains a lot, doesn’t it? That’s the reason your boyfriend can’t manage to get his socks or underwear actually in the hamper—because he grew up with mommy doing it for him. That’s why your pasta sauce is good, but not great—because his taste buds have been finely tuned to Mom’s Sunday gravy.