The Billionaire Bargain #3(7)
“I can’t see him every day,” I admitted to Kate, and it felt as if something broke inside me, just a little, as I said that. “Even if he were being civil right now. It would still hurt too damn much. And since he’s not being civil—since he hates my guts and doesn’t feel like hiding it—well. I just can’t.”
“He has no right to treat you like that,” Kate said quietly. “He can be angry, fine, but you don’t deserve how he’s treating you.”
“I don’t blame him,” I said, and I was astonished to find that I was speaking the truth. For all my earlier anger towards him, the person I was really angry at was myself. I buried my head in my hands. “I made a fool of him in front of everyone.”
“Lacey, have you met Grant?” Kate asked. “He has a high-profile romance fall apart once a week. Sure, he’s never been on the receiving end of the dumping, but you didn’t lock him outside your hotel room in his underwear like that Russian model, or dare him to moon the mayor like that Brazilian heiress. It’s not like the public hasn’t seen him totally humiliated a zillion times already. Okay? Grant is definitely overreacting here.” She hesitated. “Oh, God. Unless he’s…I mean, it’s almost like…”
“Almost like what?” I said from the shelter of my hands. “Like I irrevocably f*cked up and hurt him more than anyone else ever before?”
Kate gave me a little shove. “Almost like maybe the jerk actually has some feelings for you too, dummy.”
I peeked out at her from between my fingers. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“What’s to kid?” Kate asked. “You’re pretty, you’re smart, you’re fabulous as hell. I don’t want you to get your hopes up or anything…but damn, girl, usually when a guy pulls a bitchfest like this, it’s because somebody’s reminded them they have a heart, and they’re not liking the feeling of it getting stomped on.”
I pondered her words. Could it be true? Could Grant really have had feelings for me? I felt regret begin to blossom in my chest, heavy and unrelenting. What if—if only—
No. No. I clamped down on it, squeezing that thin sad wondering voice into nothing more than a whisper. It didn’t matter what Grant had felt for me then—he hated me now. And there was no use wondering where our relationship could have gone, because I’d chopped a tree down over that road and declared it closed.
As Grant had said, it was all over.
? ? ?
Unfortunately the universe showed no signs of slowing down time to accommodate feelings breaks, so I had to ditch Kate and the ginger ale after only half an hour and get back to the office pronto. There was a big executive meeting, and I couldn’t afford to be a mess in front of Grant. I needed to show that I had caught up, that I was on the ball and un-intimidated.
I had reviewed all my presentation materials, double-checked my online calendar to review the time, sent e-mails confirming the main points others would be presenting, even considered sending Tina out to the water cooler to eavesdrop on gossip before realizing that I was over-thinking things, and also that Tina would be a terrible spy. I set off towards the boardroom, as prepared as I could possibly be.
…well, there was one more thing…
I checked my watch, and satisfied that there was just enough time, ducked into the executive bathroom. I pulled my lipstick out of my satchel, and quickly applied a fresh coat. There. Battle armor donned and ready.
“Hello, Lacey.”
“Aaaaaaaah holy—er, hello, Portia,” I mustered in reply to Grant’s decidedly un-fairy godmother. I steadied myself against the bathroom counter and forced myself to smile back pleasantly—although I’m afraid the result was much more like a terrified baboon rictus—at Portia’s reflection where it had popped up behind me.
What the hell was it with this woman and ambushing me in bathrooms? Did she use them as her evil portals? Was she the ghost of someone who had accidentally drowned in a toilet? Being long-dead would explain a lot about her cold-bloodedness.
“How are you doing, my dear?” asked Portia, or rather, asked the skilled actor I knew must be impersonating Portia, since Portia herself would never show actual human emotion to this extent. Her eyes were wide. Her lips were pursed. Her brow was actually furrowed in concern. “I’ve been so concerned about how you’re holding up under all this pressure.”
“Fine,” I managed after a few stunned seconds, trying not to openly gape at the robot faultily programmed to portray a Portia-like being—that still made more sense than Portia being nice, right? She’d never supported my relationship with Grant, even knowing it was a hoax all along. “Um, I mean. You know. Fine.”
If this had really been Portia, she would have taken this opportunity to issue a stinging insult about my capability for stringing words together into a sentence of comprehensible English.
But the genetically modified shape shifter currently wearing Portia’s skin just smiled sympathetically—an actual smile! It stretched the length of her lips and everything!—and said, “It’s difficult, isn’t it? Oh, the press are such animals. And they never stop to think how you might feel, do they?”
I listened intently for the sound of the Twilight Zone theme music. It stubbornly refused to play. “Uh, no? I guess?”