The Dirty Series 2(20)

I ran on the treadmill until my lungs burned in my chest, until my legs felt weak and my knees like jelly. At home, I found my roommate already parked on the sofa. Carolyn had called it an early day at the boutique. Once I was out of the shower, I flopped down onto the couch next to her, and we both stretched our legs out, our feet propped up on the ottoman.

“Another rough day?”

I rolled my eyes and sighed deeply.

“Every day is a rough day when your only client is your ex-boyfriend.”

“I bet. Trainwreck is on HBO. Want to order in?”

“More than anything.”

By the end of that movie, I’d changed my mind about Christian again. So he did something fucked up in his life. Who hasn’t made a mistake? Casting the first stone, and all that.

Of course, not everyone steals their dead brother’s identity and goes on pretending to be him for another ten years, tricking his friends and remaining family the entire time.

Wednesday morning, I wake up exhausted, as though I haven’t slept.

There’s a meeting with Christian scheduled for 10:00.

I’m torn.

On the one hand, my stomach is twisting in painful knots at the prospect of sitting across my desk from Christian, looking into his eyes, and pretending that I feel nothing. I could curl up under the comforter and stay in bed all day, avoiding the scene entirely. It’s tempting.

On the other hand, I haven’t seen him since last Thursday…and it’s killing me. I’m so angry at him. I’m so baffled by what he chose to do. But something deep inside me wants to be close to him, wants to be touching him, wants to be fighting with him even, if that’s what it takes to get past this.

I shove the covers off of me and get out of bed in a huff, sick to death of feeling this way. I need to make up my mind.

I turn on the shower, adjusting the water to the perfect temperature, and step inside.

More than anything, I need to be a professional. HRM was my ticket out of Colorado, and if nothing else, it can be my ticket away from Christian, too.

I stop mid-shampoo. That solution doesn’t sit right, either. HRM has offices all over the world, and I could request another transfer, but how would it look right now? Not great. I haven’t been at headquarters long enough to prove myself.

There’s only one course of action right now. I need to finish my shower, dry my hair, and gird my fucking loins for the gut-wrenching meeting at ten.



My hands tremble over my keyboard all through the morning.

At ten minutes to ten, I lean back in my chair and clench them into fists, stilling my body through sheer force of will.

You are in control of this meeting, I remind myself. This is your job, and you’re great at it.

I can feel my face slipping into the neutral expression that I’ve always worn before high-pressure meetings. A former boss of mine once said that he wondered if anything ever shook me, and I laughed it off. “No,” I said. “Nothing ever does.” That’s the kind of illusion you need to maintain if you’re going to work in PR, and I’ve been damn good at it so far.

Christian has taken me far off that path, but I’m back on it and ready to face him.

That’s what I’m telling myself when my phone rings at 9:55.

It’s Adam, calling from his desk.

“Campbell,” I say, my voice strong and clear. I’ll be damned if I let anyone see how much this has shaken me, how much it’s made me doubt everything that happened over the past few weeks.

“Mr. Pierce is here for your ten o’clock. Should I send him in?”

“Absolutely,” I say, and my heart wrenches in my chest.

Moments later, my office door swings open, Adam holding it, and Christian strides through, his chin up, his back straight. I drop my shoulders a little and lift my chin in answer. Adam gives me a nod and pulls the door closed behind him as Christian crosses the office without a pause and sits down across from me.

He looks like shit.

That’s not entirely true. He looks amazing. He always does. He’s clean-shaven, giving me an unobstructed view of his chiseled jaw, and his suit is tailored to perfection. I’m sure that what’s underneath hasn’t changed at all.

But his eyes are filled with pain—and something else.

“Mr. Pierce.”

“Ms. Campbell.”

His words settle in the air between us, and fuck, I feel my throat tightening up.

Not now.

I swallow hard and give him a thin-lipped smile. “I’m sorry I had to cancel our meeting last week. I wasn’t feeling well.” My tone was meant to be confident, but my voice rings false, strained. This isn’t what I want to be saying.

“I understand.”

“Thank you.” I slide a leather portfolio across the desk to him. “This is what I have planned for the upcoming week. If there are any tweaks you’d like me to make in terms of scheduling or venue, I thought we could go over those today.”