“Okay he’s an ass, I know that. But—” She stops herself and turns away. “I don’t know why I’m talking to you about this. I just need to go home.”
“You can talk to me about it, Savvy.” I leave out the part where Iwanther to talk to me about it. I’m unbelievably drawn to anything that she has to say. It’s the reason I asked her out a few weeks ago in the first place. I hung on her every word andwhen the night was over, I knew I wanted to hear more. Now, trying to get her to talk to me again feels like blowing out a trick birthday candle that just keeps lighting.
“I don’t want you to be upset. I’m a good listener. Just ask my sister. I know it sucks how things ended with our date and?—”
The hand in front of my face shuts me up real quick.
“I’m going to stop you right there. Thank you for the hug and for calming me down,” she says quietly. “But I’m certainly not going to trauma dump on you. I’m cold, wet, andtired.”
Sucking in a long, exaggerated breath, I fire up the truck and put it in drive to take her home.
The way she’s avoiding a conversation with me right now is maddening, not just because pining after a woman who wants nothing to do with me is different from what I’m used to, but more because we have unfinished business.
We had something real; I could feel it. I want to get back to that, but I’m going to have to earn her trust again in order for that to happen.
If the ignored calls and texts, angry looks, and refusals to talk it out weren’t enough to deter me, I’m not sure anything will.
If she ever slips and lets me get a word in edgewise, I’ll find a way to convince her to give me another chance.
5
SAVANNAH
My eyes are as puffy and red as they’ve ever been. My head throbs like I just got home from an all-night rager. And I may very well get fired today.
“Damn thing,” I curse as I throw the beauty sponge across the bathroom and it bounces off the vintage coral tile, landing somewhere behind the woven basket in the corner.
It doesn’t matter how expensive my concealer is or how much blending I attempt. I place my hands on either side of the sink, leaning toward the vanity mirror. This mug is going to look as rough as I feel and there’s not much I can do about it at this point. Little to no sleep and hours of crying will do that to a girl.
I spent half the night wide awake and trying to figure out a world-class speech that might help save my career. The other half, warding off the guilt from how hard I was on Warren after he saved my ass when no one else would.
In truth, I appreciated that he was willing to come pick me up and take me home even when I acted like an absolute ice queen toward him. I don’t think anyone has ever helped me calm down so fast, but he did somehow. His body was irresistibly warmin the middle of the nearly frigid rain. His voice was sure and soothing.
For a moment, with the way he touched me and his reaction to my mental breakdown, it was almost as if he cared.
I’d love nothing more than to believe that to be true, but I can’t trust my feelings around him. I can’t trust him in general. No matter how charming or handsome he is, he’s not cunning enough to fool me twice.
The long hours of overthinking last night did nothing to erase the familiar rush of disappointment about my job either. Knowing I have to walk into that office today and face the consequences of the stunt I pulled yesterday brings a whole new meaning to the word failure.
Now would be a great time for me to call a friend. Isn’t that what most girls do on a morning like this when one of them feels like booking a one-way ticket to Antarctica? FaceTime while they do their hair and get dressed. Vent about the latest drama, hype each other up, or maybe tell each other how good they look in their outfits.
I wouldn’t know, I’m just assuming. The closest I’ve ever come to having that is propping up my phone to watch a complete stranger’s “get ready with me” videos or makeup tutorials online while I get ready.
But I could use a real friend right now. I sure as hell am not going to get a nurturing pep-talk from my aloof parents, pretentious brother, or nonexistent gal pals. The only thing I can do is down the rest of this berry smoothie, slap on a little extra lip gloss, and hope for the best.
With one last glance in the mirror and a quick smoothing of my curls, I finish putting on my gold jewelry and camel blazer on top of my signature crisp white blouse. I almost went with a more plain sensible black that I laid out yesterday, but I’ll bedamned if I’m going to get canned looking like I showed up for my own funeral.
Looking down, I slip my feet into a pair of my favorite sling-back heels. Fake it ‘till you make it, butneverin ugly shoes.
Hooking my bag in the crook of my elbow, I walk out of the bathroom and across the hardwood floor to the kitchen. It’s only a few feet away, nestled in the corner of the studio layout cottage by the sliding barn door that leads to the backyard.
This rental fell into my lap when I posted my apartment in the city as a sublet after I was hired at the firm in Westridge. I commuted for a while since it was about an hour away. On a good day. That got old after a few weeks, and I realized that I needed to move.
Luckily, a girl about my age who only lives a few minutes from Westridge emailed me and offered me a trade situation. She needed a place to live in the city while she taught a class at the university for the summer and fall semesters, and I needed to live closer to work until I found something more permanent. There aren’t a lot of options for renting around here, so I was elated when she emailed me.
After a few conversations on FaceTime to make sure she wasn’t scamming me, I agreed to take care of her little cottage and the “exorbitant amount of plants,” her words, while she took over my lease until the end of the year.
My eyes about bugged out of my head when I arrived with my things to move in. When she said that she had a lot of plants for me to take care of, I wasn’t expecting to find a damn botanical garden for a home.
