The Fortunate Ones
Page 46

I can’t give him any more details than that. I can’t tell him that as of this moment, I can’t imagine leaving at all, much less in a few days. I can’t tell him I’ve already agreed to take the job. Diego and Nicolás are counting on me, and if I pass up the opportunity, who knows when the agency will find another position for me. It’s not something I can dismiss lightly. I didn’t bust my butt through college to spend the rest of my 20s peddling Mai Tais around the pool at Twin Oaks.
I think we both know that, and I think that’s why he doesn’t ask me to stay. He dips down and presses a kiss to my cheek. I inhale as long as I can, holding his scent with me even after the driver pulls away from his curb.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Diego and Nicolás had me sign and fax over a contract when I agreed to take the position, and though it’s non-binding, it feels like it is. I refuse to entertain the idea of staying behind. I’ve agreed to work for them, and I won’t give up the opportunity. The pay is insane, Barcelona is beautiful, and most importantly, I will never have to don this Twin Oaks uniform ever again. Every day brings me closer to freedom, and every day the polo shirt feels slightly more constricting than the day before, almost like it knows I’m trying to leave. I tug at the collar and try to adjust my skirt so it covers up a few more inches of my thighs.
Brian is training my replacement in the cabana, some overeager UT student. In the five minutes I was around her, she kept going on and on about how Matthew McConaughey is a member here. Then she looked me dead in the eye and asked if I’d ever seen him. Once with Andy Roddick and Brooklyn Decker, I tell her, and yes, they’re all beautiful in real life.
I think Brian could tell she was annoying me because he sent me back into the main clubhouse to roll silverware. They have the assembly line set up in the employee break room, where a small flat-screen plays daytime soaps. I tune it out and focus on the forks and knives in front of me. Maybe if I roll them fast enough, Brian will let me go early.
“Knock knock,” Ellie says, tapping her knuckles on the doorframe.
I glance up but don’t stop rolling. “What’s up? I thought you were on hostess duty.”
“I am,” she says before nodding her head behind her and flashing me one of her trademark don’t hate me smiles. They’re usually reserved for when she admits she lost a piece of borrowed clothing. I mentally prepare myself to hear her tell me she ruined my favorite pair of Madewell jeans, and then James steps into the doorway behind her. My heart soars and my stomach tightens into a ball of anxiety. I don’t know what he’s doing here; we haven’t talked since I left his house the other night. I’ve actually appreciated the fact that we haven’t run into each other at the club, and it takes me a second to remember that he shouldn’t be back here. This area is employees only.
Ellie turns and pats James’ shoulder.
“Pay up, moneybags.”
He casts an amused glance down at her as he pulls his wallet out and produces a crisp hundred-dollar bill. She pops it out of his hand with her thumb and forefinger and walks away, snapping it a few times for emphasis.
“‘’Preciate ya!”
I can’t help but smile. “Did you just bribe my sister?”
He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The employee break room is small to begin with, but with him looming there, surveying the space, it becomes stifling. “I offered a twenty, but she’s a good negotiator. I might hire her.”
I shake my head, turning back to my silverware. “Good to know the value of a conversation with me. My normal rate is $600 an hour, so you have 10 minutes.” I snort.
“Are you busy?” he asks, no hint of amusement in his tone. “Can you talk?”
Talk.
The most terrible word in the English language.
I wave my hand across the mess of silverware spread out on the table before me. “As you can see, I have my hands full.”
“Brooke,” he says with calm emphasis.
His heavy tone is enough to convince me to take him seriously. If he wants to talk here, fine—it’s not like they’re going to fire me—but if he wants to come to the workers’ quarters, I’m going to put him to work.
I push my current set of silverware toward him. “Get to rollin’.”
He steps into the small room and closes the door behind him. The soap opera on the TV plays out in the background. A woman is shouting at a man about sleeping with her business partner. It’s all very dramatic compared to the atmosphere in here.
I peer up at James from beneath my lashes, trying to get a sense of how he feels. Is he upset about what happened the other night? Terrified of losing me?
He remains a few feet from me, studying my face in thoughtful silence. Apparently, we’re both at a loss for words, but I manage to speak first.
“I want to clear the air once and for all,” I say, playing with a stray thread on the linen napkin in my hand. “I didn’t mean to shout at you the way I did the other night. That was…that’s not how I want to conduct myself in the future.”
“You don’t have to apologize,” he replies with quiet solemnity.
If he’s not here to demand an apology and he’s not here to fight, then there’s only one other option.
I shoot to my feet. “James, I really need to—”
He steps forward and cuts me off. “Should I ask you to stay?”
His resolved tone hints that he already knows the answer.
“Please don’t,” I beg with a pleading glance, desperate to end this conversation before it even starts. “I’ve already committed to this. It’s what I want.”
“How long will you be gone?”
I choose complete honesty in my response. “Indefinitely.”
The word is a nail in our coffin. Indefinitely means there’s no point in waiting for me to come back.
He drags his hand through his hair in a stressful tug then turns and paces back and forth in the small space. As the owner of a company, he’s probably used to solving problems and putting out fires. I know his brain is working overtime to come up with a solution for this, but there really isn’t one.
“Foundations like ours don’t really lend themselves to a long-distance thing,” I joke sadly.
“And that’s not what either of us wants,” he says.
No, it’s not. It would be an ill-fated compromise that would only make things worse. How long would James put up with me being in Spain when what he really wants—really needs—is a partner here, now.
“Maybe if…” My voice trails off.
What, Brooke? What could you two be? Pen pals?
“What?” he asks hopefully.
His tone is enough to tear down my calm resolve, because while I can handle us fighting up until the day I leave, I can’t handle his kindness, his ability to bring softness to a situation that really sucks.
He rushes toward me to wipe my cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “Please don’t cry.”
How can I not?
“Why does this feel like our 100th breakup?” I ask with a pitiful little hiccup.
“Because it is.”
Sadness ripples through me and the tears start coming a little faster.
His admission breaks the floodgates. I’m a blubbering mess thinking about him alone in his house, working long hours, wishing he had someone to come home to at the end of the day.
“Do me a favor, okay? Just forget about me. Move on.”
It’s not that I thought he would ever wait for me, but it bears saying just in case. The thought of him spending another day alone makes my stomach ache and tears burn the backs of my eyes. I want him to find happiness. I want to think of him with a wife and children, completely fulfilled.
He turns his profile to me, narrowing his eyes at some point on the wall beside us. Maybe he’s collecting his thoughts or trying to keep his emotions at bay, but when he finally turns back to me, I can see he wasn’t successful. Big, sorrowful brown eyes implore me to change my mind, to stay for him, and for a moment, I cave.
“This doesn’t feel right,” I whisper.
“I agree.” He pulls me closer so my hips touch his and then he tips my chin up. From this angle, I can see every strand of his dark, sooty lashes, every shade of brown in his eyes. “You should stay.”