Perfectly Imperfect(6)

“Nothing that can’t wait for me to help a beautiful woman out,” he says, and I snap my head back, knocking it against the wooden table behind where I’m crouched on the floor. “Shit,” he gruffs. Then, as if it couldn’t get worse, he crouches down and his long, thick fingers dive into my hair and rub against the spot I just banged. The second he touches my scalp, a fire shoots from the pads of his fingers and pings around my body like lava.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Please …” I plead and look up through the foggy haze created by my unshed tears.

I watch his eyes fire, something working quickly over his expression before he wipes it clean. Before I can give it much thought, relief washes over me. Whatever he sees in the gaze he’s holding prisoner must be enough. A deep breath of air rushes from his full lips and warms my already burning face before he nods once and moves away from me. He doesn’t speak again; instead, he gathers the rest of my personal belongings and places them back in my broken purse. I pull myself from the floor carefully to avoid looking like the weakling that I am, and when Kane stands, I take my broken bag from his fingers. He doesn’t speak, just nods when I clutch it to my chest as if it was a shield.

“Thank you,” I murmur, not looking up from his chest.

“It was nothing.” He sighs softly.

“Well, thank you nonetheless. I’m sorry for interrupting your morning.”

“At the risk of sounding like a jerk, the interruption was my pleasure.”

My eyes flit to his quickly, and my mouth opens. I blink … slowly … a few times as his full lips turn up into a smile that makes my already racing heart pick up speed.

“Good luck in there, beautiful Willow.”

Another slow blink. Did Kane Masters just call me beautiful? Surely, not.

“Until next time,” he continues his deep rumbles.

Do what?

With that, he turns and walks over to the receptionist. With one more glance back, he follows her out of the lobby.

I take a few more minutes to collect myself before I grab the rest of my things and head to the doorway the others went through earlier. As hard as it is going to be to forget any of the last ten minutes happened, I do my best to shove that embarrassing scene into my box of shame deep within and collect the last shred of my pride before heading off to end this terrible chapter of my life.

An hour later, my divorce from Brad finally becomes official. It was easy enough; I asked for nothing knowing damn well it wouldn’t be given without a fight I couldn’t afford. I spent the whole time inside the conference room staring at my hands while my headache intensified. When I managed to pull my pride up like a proverbial big tug of my britches earlier and walk through the door, the first thing my eyes met were the hate-filled gaze of Brad Tate, my now ex-husband. When I sat down across the table from my perfectly tailored ex-husband, all I could do was wonder, and not for the first time, how we ever made it through four years of marriage. He sat there with a tight lip and narrow eyes, never wavering in his directed probing, as I tried my hardest to remember if we ever even liked each other.

No, I take that back. I liked him. But I can admit now it wasn’t love. I loved the idea of him, but it was only ever an unhealthy way for me to feel like I was desired by someone. I was alone and miserable, grasping at anything I could find to feel. But I can honestly say now it was never love.

He sat there as the mirror image of perfection. His body, one of his better qualities, looked nothing short of impeccable in his dark suit. His hair styled flawlessly and his face–the one I used to find so handsome—couldn’t even hide his attractiveness with the twisted look of abhorrence he directed across the table at me.

And next to him sat my sister, Ivy. His way of making sure this day was even more painful for me, and she most likely was all for making sure that was the case. We have never gotten along. Not even as children. She is the only person, besides Brad and my father, that is, who I might hate the most.

And sadly, I’ve played into her hand far too often. When I look over at my sister, I see everything I’m not. Everything she’s made sure to remind me that I never will be.

We may be sisters, but we’re also complete opposites in looks and personality.

Ivy, like me, is tall, but Ivy is also a product of the utmost beauty money can buy. Beauty she has no problem spending one hell of a pretty penny to maintain. It’s really a shame she couldn’t pay someone to fix her evil, black soul.

“Well, Mrs. Tate,” my lawyer starts while shuffling some of the papers around in front of him. “It looks as if everything is in order.” He hands his thick stack over to his partner and together they make sure everything is, in fact, in order.

I don’t speak.

My sister makes a noise deep in her throat that has me wondering if she’s choking on her tongue.

“Don’t you mean Ms.?” Brad retorts, venom dripping from each word.

My attorney clears his throat and looks at me with pity before addressing Brad. “Yes, my apologies, Mr. Tate. Slip of the tongue.”

“How long until we can take care of that issue?” Brad strangely requests, looking over at the other Mr. Buchanan.

“Take care of what issue exactly, Mr. Tate?” my attorney interjects.

My eyes move from my lawyer to Brad. His eyes flash in anger before he slams his fist on the polished wood causing my headache to pierce through my skull.