Those Three Words: A Single Dad, Billionaire Boss Romance(85)

I place a few drops of Argon oil in my palms, running it through my bouncy barrel curls before walking over to pick out an outfit from my closet. I’ve never been one of those stick-thin girls and I never will be. For years I struggled with the fact that I matured before anyone else in my class. I went to great lengths to try and hide my body, but it was no use. They didn’t exactly make clothes for girls in sixth grade that already had D’s. It wasn’t until I was forced to defend myself that I realized how grateful I am for the body I have. It’s healthy, gets me places I need to go, and looks fucking phenomenal in a pencil skirt.

I’ll never forget the second day of my sophomore year in high school. Kyle Westmore, the class jerk-off, told me that if I wasn’t careful, the friction between my thighs was going to start a fire. I just ignored the comment, but my friend Whitney told him to fuck off and that he wished he was the reason for the friction between my thighs. I tried hiding my giggle, but Kyle saw it and replied with, “No, thanks, I don’t date fat chicks.”

And that was the day, the exact moment actually, that I gave up trying to hide or care about what others thought of me. I’ll never forget the surge of courage I got in that moment. I froze, turned around, and marched right back up to Kyle and told him that maybe if he had half as much dick in his pants as he did in his personality, a girl like me might consider him. The crowd that had gathered around us laughed and jeered as Kyle slammed his locker and shouted some unmemorable comment back to me.

I giggle to myself, grabbing my favorite red heels, or as my best friend likes to call them, fuck me pumps, and slip them on with my high-waisted pencil skirt and polka-dot blouse. Looking myself over in the mirror, I smile with excitement. I look like I just stepped out of the fifties and I love it.

I gather my things for work, pour my unfinished cup of coffee in a to-go cup, and leave my tiny apartment to make my train on time. I’m a few minutes early so I take a seat on my usual bench and pull out the newest book I picked up from a local bookstore. It’s about an ordinary girl who meets and falls for a guy who just so happens to be a prince. I know it’s unrealistic but hey, that’s why we read romance, right? To get lost in the fantastical stories about average people falling in love with a secret prince and dirty scenes so hot you have to fan yourself so your cheeks don’t catch on fire.

My phone beeps from my bag and I suddenly remember that I forgot to take it out yesterday and charge it. There’s no telling how many calls and messages I’ve missed in the last twelve hours. I just hope none of them were about work. I pull the phone out of my bag and notice the battery bar on the top of the screen is red. It’s on its last bit of life and I remind myself to plug it in the moment I get to my desk. What captures my attention next is the fourteen missed calls and the nine unread messages—all from the same person. My ex, Penn.

My stomach tightens when I see his name. It’s not the fact that he’s reaching out to me that’s bothering me; it’s the feeling that his behavior is becoming unhinged and erratic. It’s not normal in the slightest to call someone fourteen times outside of an emergency, especially someone you broke up with seven months ago.

Penn and I had what I thought was a good relationship—until it wasn’t. We met four years ago and started dating pretty much immediately. I felt like we had an instant chemistry and connection that I’d never experienced before, but really, I only felt that way because he constantly told me that’s how he felt. I’ve since learned it’s what my therapist calls “love bombing.” It’s a trick narcissists use to make you feel like what you have with them is so special and can never be recreated and it slowly turns into guilt and manipulation to keep you with them.

He really is a nice guy—or was a nice guy. I have to remind myself constantly that being controlling, projecting his insecurities, and making ridiculous accusations isn’t being nice. It felt like he changed somewhere along the way and I completely missed it, but my therapist also told me that this is what narcissists do. He hid who he was from me until he’d gained my trust.

“They are parasites, Wren. They will latch on to you and use you and use you until they suck you completely dry. They will not change because they do not believe they need to. They believe that you are the problem. That if only you loved them more, just did what they said, didn’t upset them… then everything would be perfect.”

I let her words bounce around in my head for the hundredth time. It’s something I do when I start to feel the guilt creep in that I “abandoned” him and start thinking that maybe I could fix him.

According to him, everything was perfect and me asking for space came out of nowhere. But that wasn’t the case. He had a lot of problems with my relationship with Theo and how much time I spent away from home traveling with him. He would often comment about how I got a raise, convinced that I didn’t earn the money but was given it for pleasing my boss in one way or another. I finally had all I could take and I called off the relationship. However, I still haven’t managed to get him to release me completely.

I glance up and see my train approaching. I shake the thoughts of Penn from my head as I put my book back into my bag and pull it higher up on my shoulder to board the train. The usual hustle and bustle of everyone boarding pulls me in and I find that my usual seat is still open so I grab it and settle in by the window to resume reading my book. I’ve ridden this train to and from work every day for three years so I know by counting stops when I need to get off without ever really leaving the world of the book I’m lost in.