Say the Word(12)

I’ve never been exceedingly practical.

And, obviously, I had to get a glimpse of him. Maybe he’d gotten fat and his hairline was receding. A girl could dream, right?

Crouched low, I reached shaky hands into the rack of hanging clothes and slid the dresses blocking my view apart to create a small opening I could peer through. And there he was.

His back was to me as he snapped photos of Cara. He was a photographer now, I gathered astutely, though I couldn’t believe he was doing a shoot for Luster, of all places. It seemed so at odds with everything I knew about him – superficial, materialistic, girly.

Well, people change. His looks certainly had, at the very least.

When I’d last seen him, he’d been eighteen and – while not lean – he’d had the lithe, athletic build of a soccer player. That boy was gone, replaced by a man with broad shoulders and defined biceps that strained against the confines of his dark green henley as he lifted his camera to eye level. His hair was the same burnished gold color, but he wore it a little longer than he had in high school.

Damn.

Did it make me a bad person for wishing — just a little, teensy bit — that he’d let himself go? Maybe gotten a beer-belly or started wearing socks and sandals at the same time? It would make it a hell of a lot easier to look at him. Was that so much to ask, in the grand scheme of things?

Apparently.

From what I could see from his profile and build, he looked good. Great. Goddamn delicious. And I had to stare at him armed with the knowledge that I’d walked away from the literal embodiment of perfection.

Damn, damn, damn.

All sorts of questions raced through my mind as spied on him through the rack of designer dresses. Was he married? Did he have children? A house and a Golden Retriever in his backyard, where he played catch with a son whose mother wasn’t me?

The hole where my heart used to reside ached, a seven-year-old wound made fresh. Whatever scar tissue had managed to heal over in the time since I’d last seen him was ripped off and I was eighteen once more, weeping into the pillow of my childhood bed. When I’d walked away from him that day, I’d honestly never expected to see Sebastian again. And though it nearly killed me, I’d never tried to contact him in the years since. I’d never even let myself Google him, knowing that his image would likely appear alongside his father’s.

He’d never reached out to me either, which hurt irrationally. I’d ripped his heart to shreds, yet for years after our breakup some small, insistent, deranged part of my brain had expected Sebastian to come for me. To force me to see reason – hell, to at least try to get me back. I’d wanted him to fight for me, even knowing full well that we couldn’t be together.

I was an idiot.

I also needed wine. And maybe chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate. Possibly a marathon of Johnny Depp movies as well. Screw going back to work. I had stops to make on the way home, followed by plans which included getting very familiar with my living room sofa and not moving for at least three days.

I had no right to want him, no right to even look at him anymore, but when Cara Stein sauntered toward him and smeared a frosting-covered finger down his cheek before leaning in to lick it clean, I wanted to rip her beautiful face right off.

So, he was dating a model. Or screwing one, at the very least. How charming.

I tore my eyes away, feeling physically ill and unable to look anymore. I knew I had no claim on him – we hadn’t spoken in seven freaking years. I wasn’t naive in thinking that after our breakup he’d been so devastated he’d joined a monastery and taken an oath of celibacy – though that delusion was vastly preferable to the sharp, debilitating pain I felt now as I watched him with someone else.

So distressed by Sebastian’s presence, I didn’t put it together that the shoot was over until he began packing up his lenses and Cara turned and approached the food table, which was a few short feet away from my hiding spot. Casting a last, longing look at Sebastian’s back – god, I was pathetic – I rose and started speed-walking to the elevator.

I was close to escape – so, so close to walking out of there without living one of my worst nightmares and coming face to face with the former love of my life. It was the one confrontation I’d have paid any amount of money to avoid. Keeping my eyes trained on the floor and my head ducked low, I reached the bank of elevators and lifted my hand to press the call button.

Vitali’s Chaconne thrummed in my ears, keeping time with the blood that pounded through my veins in a relentless staccato. The illuminated numbers above the door showed the elevator was on the second floor. It might take several minutes for it to reach the fifteenth, especially if the lunch crowd were returning from their breaks and disembarking on every level.

Come on, hurry up, I pleaded with my eyes trained on the number panel.

“What the hell is this mess?!” a feminine voice shrieked. “Who did this? The salad I ordered is all over the floor!”

Shit.

I pressed the call button again, praying that whatever god was up there would take pity on me and let the elevator arrive before Cara spotted me.

“Hey! You!” her voice screeched. “Bitch by the elevators!”

Fuck. Too late.

My eyes closed and I sighed deeply, knowing a confrontation with her was unavoidable. All I could hope for at this point was that her boyfriend wouldn’t get involved – because that would get really awkward, really fast. I listened as her heels clomped in my direction, unwilling to turn around to face her until it was absolutely necessary. I considered running for the stairwell, but I had a feeling that descending fifteen flights in Louboutins wouldn’t end well for me, and Cara would probably have security guards swarming before I made it down two levels.