Three more minutes.
Three words.
Nicks: I’m good, Lex.
I read over the response a dozen times. Two dozen times.
My eyes close, and the phone slips from my hand because that’s when I remember something she told me a long time ago as we sat shoulder to shoulder on her rooftop.
She never says anything she doesn’t mean.
Chapter 41
Lex
It’s almost eleven o’clock when I finally roll out of bed the next day, having spent the evening alone in my condo with a bottle of Barrique de Ponciano Porfidio tequila. The only thing higher than its ridiculous price tag was my determination to obliterate the memory of Stevie’s devastated face as I left her alone in my living room last week with nothing but a broken heart and a six-figure paycheck.
Didn’t work.
All I managed to do was almost call her seventy-five times until I hid my phone somewhere to spare myself from the subsequent fallout of drunk dialing my fake ex-girlfriend and begging her to come back to me.
I have no idea where I put my fucking phone.
Running a hand through my mess of overgrown hair, I yank last week’s shirt from the laundry pile—still clinging to the faint scent of her coconut shampoo—and head downstairs. The plan? Drown this hangover in a flood of espresso strong enough to restart my soul.
But before my eyes have even adjusted to the harsh light of day, Rudy’s voice pierces my ears, laying the groundwork for a level-ten migraine. “Good morning, motherfucker.”
I glance into the main room and find my agent prancing through my condo holding a pink paper bag.
What the fuck?
My eyes pan to the feminine tote with a scowl. “What are you doing here? Aside from wanting to show me your collection of bubble gum blossom bath bombs.”
“I’m a zesty citrus guy myself, but nice alliteration. I brought scones. You’re lucky I’d already purchased them, or you’d be getting none.”
I grumble at the same time as my stomach does. “Any blueberry?”
Rudy tosses me the bag of scones. “No, but there’s an arsenic and chocolate chip in there for you.”
“Why are you here?” I discard the paper bag on the island top and press forward on my hands. I’m in no mood for Rudy right now. I have a hangover from hell and a pit of self-loathing to dive into like a trench of bloodthirsty piranhas.
“Well, Lex, tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and you’re basically family,” Rudy says, falling onto a barstool. “Figured we could put on our aprons and stuff a turkey together, since you won’t be stuffing anything else for the foreseeable future.”
My heart cracks open and bleeds, the piranhas drooling and ravenous. “Low blow.”
“I say it how I see it.” He pulls a scone from the bag and takes a bite, crumbs dispersing all over my counter. “Have you texted her? Called her? Sent her photographic evidence of how miserable you are without her? You look like you’re protesting your own existence.”
“I did text her, and she said she’s doing good. So fuck off.”
“Good means fine, and fine means you better start groveling before she starts posting sad-girl quotes on her Instagram stories and sending you cryptic messages in the form of Taylor Swift lyrics.”
This conversation is no less than a slow, painful death.
Luckily, my phone starts ringing from…
Somewhere.
I move around the island, opening cabinets, the fridge, the freezer, and looking inside bags of flour and brown sugar.
