Junk Mail(41)

I can instantly see that he’s read it, but I don’t get so much as the three little dots suggesting he’s going to grace me with a response. So, I try again.

Peyton: Seriously? You have nothing to say? Please, just tell me what’s going on. Are we okay?

Again, he reads it, but no response. My stomach starts churning at top speed. Something is up, and I need to know what.

Pivoting on my heel, I head back to the conference room where Brody is chatting with the marketing director, still trying to make sense of an ad Josh and I came up with together.

“Hey, Brody?” I say, interrupting. “Do you know if Josh’s phone is working?”

Brody’s shoulders tense, his mouth forming a perfectly straight line. “Yeah. His phone is working fine. He just texted me a second ago.”

My jaw clenches as I try to force a smile. Whatever is going on here, Brody is clearly in on it. And I don’t like it one fucking bit.

“Could you let him know that I would like to speak with him, please?” I say tersely.

Brody’s shoulders fall back into place as a long sigh leaks from his mouth. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll tell him, Peyton.”

I can tell by his voice that he means it. I can also tell that it’s not going to make a difference. Josh fucking Hanson got what he wanted from me, and now he’s disappearing.

Just like every other knuckle-dragging douchebag that came before him.





Chapter Twenty-Two


Peyton



Two weeks later


When my gift boxes hit store shelves last week, I had to remind myself over and over that good things take time. It took years of hard work to build my business to this point. Although this business deal was a huge step, it was just one step, not an escalator. At least, that’s what I told myself.

And then, after a week of my products being stocked, the numbers came in. The glowing blogger reviews. The immediate demands for increased stock at nearly every store. A mere seven days later, and my cut of profits has already surpassed a whole year’s worth of income from my online store.

Maybe good things take time, but it turns out, great things can happen in the blink of an eye.

“Another bottle of bubbly!” Libby calls out to the bartender on a laugh, and Sabrina encourages her by slamming what’s left in her glass.

Needless to say, drinks are on me tonight.

I didn’t even know Speakeasy had champagne available, but they’ve somehow dusted off whatever stock they have for us. With an echoing pop, the second bottle of the evening is opened, foaming out of the beer glasses we’re drinking from, which was the closest thing to champagne flutes the bar could offer us. Champagne in a beer glass. I think it sums up the three of us perfectly.

“Say cheese!” I pass my phone off to one of the bartenders, and Libby tugs Sabrina and me into a tight hug, the three of us posing in front of the CONGRATULATIONS, PEYTON! banner they hung over our usual table.

“No, don’t say cheese!” Sabrina says. “Say Wish Upon a Gift!”

The bartender snaps the picture, but when he passes my phone back to me, the result is anything but flattering. Turns out saying my company name doesn’t make for quite the same smiles as saying cheese does. We all look like we’re in the middle of chewing something tough.

“Oh my God, we need to retake it,” Sabrina says, but I just laugh, instantly uploading the picture to Instagram and tagging them both.

“It’s perfect,” I tell them. “The perfect picture of a perfect night.”

Well, almost perfect. Even amidst all the celebration, there’s still a hollowness in my gut that no amount of champagne seems to fill. It’s ridiculous that I’d feel anything but over the moon. I’m with my best friends at my favorite bar, celebrating the spectacular success of my company. What more could I possibly want?

My stomach shifts, and not from the champagne. I know exactly what more I want, but I can hardly admit it to myself.

It’s Josh. I want Josh.

The realization instantly sobers me up. It’s been two weeks now since I scrambled out of his bed, swearing that, although he may have doubled my personal orgasm record, sleeping with him was a mistake that could ruin everything.

That same day I was given a new point of contact at Wine O’Clock, and since then, he hasn’t so much as texted me to check in. I thought that maybe he’d left the project so that things could be strictly personal, not professional, between the two of us. But instead? Nothing. Not a word.

The silence stings. Hell, I should hate him for it.

But somehow, deep in the bottom of my heart, I’m desperately hanging on to a maybe. Maybe it doesn’t have to be this way. Maybe he’s thinking of me too. Wanting me. Wondering if we had something worthwhile. Maybe, by some miracle, he’s holding on to that maybe too.

“Peyton? Are you okay?”

I didn’t realize I’ve been staring into my glass of champagne like it was a crystal ball that would tell me how I’m going to solve all of this. “What? Oh, no, it’s nothing. I’m fine.”

I force a tight smile, but Libby and Sabrina both give me identical knowing looks, completely not buying it.

“You’re thinking about him again, aren’t you?” Libby’s smug smile tells me it’s a question she already knows the answer to.