Down and Dirty (Hot Jocks #5)(56)
I swallow my pride and let out a slow exhale. “I need to talk to you about something.”
20
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Vancouver or Bust
Aubree
If I’ve learned anything from fifteen years of failed relationships, it’s how to mend a broken heart. I’ve mastered my own personal recipe for recovery—one part tears, two parts junk food, add a sprinkle of vodka-fueled rebounds as needed. Let heal for one to two months, and voilà, I’m back on my feet again.
But when I was driving to my apartment yesterday, desperately trying to blink away my tears to get a clear view of the road, I knew that this would be no ordinary heartbreak. This is the kind of thing I might never recover from. And my night of nonstop crying, hyperventilating, and blowing up Landon’s phone with texts only reinforced that fact.
After maybe a grand total of two hours of sleep, the view from my couch this morning is equally bleak. I’m not sure which is less healthy—my breakfast of double-chocolate brownie ice cream that I’m eating straight from the pint, or the fact that my puffy red eyes have been glued to my phone all morning, in hopes of getting a reply from Landon.
Spooning up a heaping bite of ice cream, I catch a glimpse of the light dancing off my wedding ring. I know I shouldn’t be wearing it, based on the way Landon all but slammed the door in my face yesterday. But I just can’t bring myself to take it off.
I raise the spoon of chocolaty goodness to my lips, hardly tasting the ice cream before swallowing it. I’m not even enjoying it at this point. I’m just trying to numb the pain of the past twenty-four hours.
I’ve lost my husband, turned down my promotion in hopes of getting him back, and still, he’s completely ignoring me. The only thing that hurts more than this complete and utter mess is knowing that it’s all my fault. I have no one to blame but myself.
When I go in for my next bite, my spoon hits the bottom of the pint. Shit. It’s over before I even realized it. Kind of like my marriage. What a depressing thought.
I set the empty carton aside, turning my attention back to the TV. The news is showing some press conference footage from the day before. My gaze ventures to the bottom of the screen, tracking along with the rest of the day’s headlines. Some NHL trades are happening, and while they’re mostly names I don’t recognize, I lean in closer. And then, in a big bold font, streams a string of words that I swear I must be misreading.
BREAKING: LANDON COVINGTON TRADED TO VANCOUVER REBELS, SOURCES SAY.
My heart boomerangs up into my throat, then down to the pit of my stomach. Sources? What sources?
I scramble for my phone, typing Landon’s name and the word Vancouver into the search bar. Half a dozen articles flood the results, each one echoing the same sentiment. The Ice Hawks are trading their rookie, and the team that wants him happens to be in the city I just turned down a promotion in.
What are the freaking odds?
Was this the thing he wanted to talk to me about yesterday? Yesterday when he came to my office and things disastrously broke right before my eyes?
Frantically, I grab my phone to shoot Landon a message about this, but after one look at the huge string of unanswered texts I sent him last night and I stop dead in my tracks.
Slow your roll, Aubree. If he hasn’t texted you back yet, he’s not going to respond now.
My thumb hovers briefly over the call button, but then I close out of my contacts altogether and open my email instead. There’s a new message from David Stone, his response to my email turning down the promotion last night.
Aubree, I’m sorry to hear that you’re declining the position. Please take the weekend to reconsider, and we’ll move forward on Monday morning.
My eyes lock on those last two words. Monday morning. Less than forty-eight hours from now. Which means I have no time to waste.
I toss my phone down, leap up from the couch, and race toward my bathroom with a renewed sense of hope. Because if I don’t have hope, I have nothing right now.
I hop in the shower, run a razor over my legs, and scrub the depression out of my pores with a generous amount of apricot body wash. Once I’m toweled off, I dig through my closet, emerging with the navy-blue T-shirt dress I wore that first morning in Vegas. After a few coats of mascara, a swipe of lip gloss, and a quick pep talk in my bathroom mirror, I’m out the door and into the driver’s seat of my SUV.
The new-car smell is still thick in the air. I’ve hardly put ten miles on this car, opting instead to use my old trusty sedan for the past week, but it feels right to drive it today. And I guess if he turns me away, I can give him the keys back and find a way home.
As I press the button for the ignition, I shake off that depressing thought and focus on the task at hand—getting to Landon as fast as I possibly can.
I zoom through town, well over the speed limit, and by some miracle, make it to Landon’s apartment without getting pulled over. I take it as a sign from the universe that I’m doing the right thing by having this conversation with him in person.
My strappy sandals carry me through the parking garage and to the doors of the elevator, which open to welcome me in. I scan the access card he gave me and hit the button for the top floor, and when the elevator shifts into motion, my stomach lurches with it. It’s not until the doors are opening again that I realize I haven’t decided on exactly what to say to him.