100
I run about three blocks before I stop and let the heart-wrenching pain overtake me. I cry like I did the night he left me on the yacht, and I think I may die this time. If my lungs don’t self-implode, I think my heart might. The pain is unbearable and raw, and I’ve never willingly exposed myself to enduring it this way, except that night.
I sit on a bench cradling my head between my knees, and I think I may even throw up. This isn’t my life; my life is calm and effortless, and straightforward. My job, apartment, and responsibilities all slot into place, and I manage them well. This isn’t happening. I’m in a parallel universe, or I’m dreaming. I’ll wake up any minute, and this will have been one long, bad dream. Except I know that it’s not. Meeting Jake has slowly changed it all; he is too potent to be around, changing me, changing how I think and live until I don’t feel like I am in control anymore.
Is this how we got here?
***
I finally start walking back to the hotel. I don’t know how long I’ve been gone, but I’m calm, and my tears have dried on their own. My face is tight and swollen, but I don’t care anymore. I’ve been through so many emotions these past few weeks; I think I’m slowly losing my mind. I’m losing my grip on my control. I don’t even know how to claw it back.
The room is dark and empty. According to the wall clock ticking loudly in the modern suite, I've been gone for two hours. There’s a light under Jake’s bedroom door. It halts me, pain clenching in my chest that he’s in there with her.
Is this how it’s always going to be? Me desolate and alone on one side and Jake on the other side of a bedroom door with another woman?
Isn’t that what this is all really about? Except I know this isn’t all on him; I’m incapable of letting him get close to me, even if he wanted to try. I’m afraid of what that means, what that will feel like. Too much has happened. Even if he told me he wanted me and only me, then how would that work? I don’t see how this could get any better. It’s better if we forget it ever happened. It’s better if we just act like we did before that first kiss in the kitchen months ago and go back to an easier time.
Can I do that? Can he? Can I bear it?
I will have to if I want to keep my job, and I do. I love working with him; I love being his right hand. But surely that in itself is half the problem. We crossed the line, and now I’ll never be able just to be what I was because I love Jake.
Shit. I love him. I think I already knew that, though.
I push the door of my bedroom open and halt suddenly. Jake is lying on my bed, illuminated by the lamp beside him, with his laptop on his thighs. He’s been waiting for me. His cell tossed carelessly in the center of the bed beside mine. I guess he tried to call me and found mine left behind. He lifts his gaze from the screen to me and closes it silently without breaking eye contact. He looks every bit like the CEO he was the first time I ever met him, mature and poised in control. It makes me ache so badly.
“We need to talk.” His voice is steady and deep but hoarse from tiredness; my inner confidence slides silently from deep within and makes a quick exit via the door. I swallow and take a deep, steadying breath, suddenly shy and afraid.
I can do this. I remind myself that I’m better than that and move coolly into the room, removing my hooded top. All control is being forced back into place, hiding my inner turmoil, hours of tears giving me some of my facade back.
“Can I have a shower first? I’m sweating from my run.” That’s a lie, as I barely ran anywhere. I just don’t want to do this. I want him to leave. I need space to function and deal with the unavoidable fact that I’m in love with a guy who can’t love me back.
“No, I’ve waited long enough,” he bristles. I feel his eyes on my back. I kick my running shoes off and push them under the vanity with my toes in a smooth, fluid movement, giving nothing away about the tension and panic rising in my throat.
So, this is where PA Emma has been hiding. Finally! Great time to make a comeback.
“Fine, but be brief; I want to sleep.” My tone is cold. I can’t help it; PA Emma is my dominant self who slides in effortlessly to protect me whenever she feels me falter, and tonight I have faltered big time. I have fallen in love with Casanova Carrero, and I am drowning.
By his slow, steady intake of breath, I can tell that his anger is still hanging around between us. He pauses, and I glance in the mirror quickly to see what he’s doing; he’s looking at his hands on the bed and frowning, contemplating his next move, and he isn’t happy. I’ve rarely seen him lost for words. I feel hopeless watching the anguish rush across his brow; I can tell he’s trying to decide what he wants to say next.
“Is this how it will always be, Emma?” he says with a defeated tone, and I cave inside.
Why can’t I just be honest with him for once? Why can’t I tell him about the chaos inside my head? Why can I never just talk to him the way he talks to me? Why can’t I say to him that I’m this way because I love him, and it kills me to know it’s unrequited.
“What do you mean?” I ask steadily and coolly, making slow, deliberate movements to untie my hair, maintaining outward poise despite the internal shaking and nausea. I want to wipe this day out, start again, and return to safer ground.
“One step forward and six steps back,” he mutters quietly to no one in particular, a tone of deflation in his voice. I can still see him in the mirror corner. His body slumped in a nonCarrero way. I can’t help but long for the strong curve of his shoulders to return. He looks so vulnerable suddenly.
“I’ve called Ryans; the jet is being prepared to take us back to New York tonight. Pack.” He slides from the bed, scooping up his laptop and cell, and stalks to the door, stopping briefly. He stares at my back; I catch sight of him in the mirror and look away from the angry flash across his face. His body is locked in a disturbing pose that says he’s beyond done with me.
“I used to think all you needed was time,” he says, “To learn to trust me, but now I see that talking about this is pointless. You don’t need time, Emma. I was fucking wrong.” He storms out and slams the door as a wave of pain crashes over me. I bite my lip to hold the trembling still and push down the threatening tears.
He has no clue how much I trust him, no clue whatsoever; I wouldn’t have let him do those things to me otherwise. It’s better this way, better that he’s pissed. Better that he never knows the truth. We won’t talk about what we did; maybe we can start over again tomorrow. We’re getting good at sweeping everything under the rug.
Out of sight, out of mind, right?
I can at least fool myself into hoping that’s how this will be.
For now.
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