83
The plane ride will be long, so I pull out my laptop, drink a glass of water, and try not to dwell on the fact I’ve cut my vacation in the sun short to go home to New York and Sarah’s sleazy boyfriend in my apartment. I should tell Jake somehow, maybe in a text or email, but I don’t want to. If he wanted to hear from me, he would answer my calls.
I answer some emails briefly and sort some minor issues out for Rosalie. Now she knows I’m back in work mode, I tell her to relieve the temporary stand-ins on my return.
I can’t concentrate. I dwell on Leila’s last conversation and find myself pulling up Google images of Jake in his early teens, trying to see if I can find this mysterious first love. There are so many images of him with women that it brings pain to my chest, and I can’t look anymore. I can’t bear to see the endless pictures of him with gorgeous bimbos. I don’t want to see some ethereal-looking woman-child he once fell in love with; I can almost bet that she wasn’t one of the leggy boobs and would stand out a mile.
It mustn’t have been that serious because she no longer exists. He’s never mentioned her. Not once.
Or maybe she is the one that got away, and that’s why he never brings her up, why he never commits to women. Way to ruin your mood, Emma.
My apartment is depressing after living on a luxury yacht for a week, and I can smell Marcus in everything, even the air around the front entrance. It makes me cringe. There’s no one home, and I’m grateful for that. It’s late; Sarah will be at work, and Marcus, God knows where. I leave Sarah a note on the fridge not to disturb me because I’m jet-lagged and head to bed. I just want to lie down and get lost in a book or movie, anything to keep my head empty and unfocused.
I need to wait until my boss decides to finally show his face or contact me to know what the hell is going on. For the hundredth time, I dwell on the fact he might fire me, and I shrug.
Maybe I’ll quit. With this job on my resumé, I’m sure I’ll get another PA job quickly.
Do I want that? I don’t know anymore. It might be for the best now that things have gone south.
***
After midnight, I’m woken by the buzz of my cell sliding across my nightstand. I reach out to it, fuzzy from fatigue, blurry-eyed, and disoriented.
“Emma Anderson,” I breathe huskily without opening my eyes. I’m on autopilot.
“Where are you?” That bark has me sitting up with a start.
Crap. Jake!
He sounds pissed, and I’m too frazzled with sleep for this, shocked awake by his surprise contact.
“New York,” I gulp, suddenly reeling from the fact he’s finally calling me.
Is he back on the yacht?
I get a tinge of regret at leaving.
“You’re at your apartment?” He’s grumpy and coldly distant.
“Yes,” is the only reply I can give; I sound so vulnerable and young that it annoys me. Silence and tension are crackling on the line. I rub my eyes in a bid to feel less zombie-like, pinch my cheek to wake me up more, hands trembling.
“You cut your vacation short?” he starts, his voice softer but still tinged with irritation.
“Yes. I wasn’t in the mood for any more surf and sun, Mr. Carrero.” I hope he hears the sarcasm in my voice. Did he really think I would stay out there without him and hang out with his friends for a full two weeks? Again, another agonizing silence.
“Good, because we need to be back at it. The Hunter merger has encountered issues; I need you at the office tomorrow.” He’s in business Carrero mode, devoid of all affection and humor.
“Will you be there?” I’m trying to sound as cool as him, but that rising warmth of hope lift its head, and I scold it back down.
Get a grip, Emma, stop being pathetic.
“No, I’m still elsewhere. You can handle things for a couple of days,” is the curt response, and I want to cry.
“Yes, sir.” I hate that it sounds childish and weak; he’s caught me off guard. I’m half asleep and crumbling at the way he’s being, still aching for some of my regular Jake to shine through, but he’s completely gone.
“I’ll be back Friday. I want a full report on my return.” His tone is still icy and flat. I miss my Jake. It’s evident that for whatever reason he left, it is still in his head that, despite the distance, he isn’t going to talk about it. He’s making it clear our relationship is now all business, with no hints of friendship or caring anymore.
“Very good, Mr. Carrero.” PA Emma raises a haughty head and pushes feebleness out of the way.
Well, fuck you very much, Mr. Cold & Moody. Yes, sure, I shall jump because you’ve demanded it.
“Enjoy the rest of your trip,” I say sarcastically, knowing that will only piss him off more.
“I intend to.” His voice is raspy, almost threatening, but it has the desired effect, and I’m glad he hangs up before the sob surfaces, the wound in my chest turning into a crater. He leaves me alone with a silent line and not even a goodbye.
I fucking hate you. Bastard!
I throw my cell across the room, not caring if I smash it.
Screw you! I don’t want to work for an egomaniac with a constant fucking hard-on anymore. Maybe I’ll resign.
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