I feel a twinge of pain somewhere in the vicinity of my heart. For once in my life, my feelings for a man have nothing to do with my ego. I wish that were the case. Wounded pride is much easier to deal with than this increasing feeling of hopelessness.
As I walk back to the bedroom, I hear the bleep of an incoming text. I detour to the table by the door where my purse, and, therefore, my phone rests. I plugged it in last night to charge it and never went back to get it. Nash distracted me.
I’ll say.
A warm flutter dances in my belly just thinking about him standing behind me in the mirror last night. I’m sure I shouldn’t have liked him being so rough and angry. I’m sure I should’ve objected, both as a woman with some self-respect and as a human being. But I don’t regret that I let it go on. For some reason, it felt like one of the most honest exchanges we’ve had thus far. He wasn’t holding anything back. He wasn’t pretending to be anyone or anything. He was just Nash. Raw, angry, sexual Nash, taking what he wanted and needed. And he took it from me.
I know I shouldn’t read so much into him coming to me for it, but I can’t seem to help it. Just as quickly as the hopelessness set in, a tiny seed of hope grows to overwhelm it.
I’m sure it will be the reverse in a few minutes or a few hours. I seem to have become emotionally bipolar since meeting Nash.
As I reach for my phone, I chastise myself for seeing and feeling things that aren’t there and setting myself up for a devastating letdown. What I find only gives my foolish heart more reason to hope.
I’m with Cash. Call if you need me. I can be home in a few minutes.
I text my short reply and try not to smile too broadly.
Okay.
Home?
My optimism returns tenfold. For a moment, I don’t think about anything but the fact that he’s being considerate of me, caring. Feeling. And that he referred to this as home.
But at the same time all this hope is filling me, rational thought is arguing with it from somewhere far in the back of my mind. It’s warning me that I’ve fallen for Nash, that I’ve fallen hard. And the thing is, I’m smart enough to know that a fall like this could break me.
Permanently.
* * *
The caller ID makes me sigh. It reads Deliane Pruitt. My secretary. And the fourth person from work to call me in the last two hours.
What happened this morning? Did the floodgates of gossip open up?
“Good morning, Del. How are you?” I greet her pleasantly.
“Good morning. Am I interrupting?”
“Not at all.”
“Okay. Good. The word is out about your return, and I’m getting calls from people wanting to set up lunches and meetings and fund-raisers. Are you coming in today?”
Her question irritates me, as does everyone’s assumption that I’m working, just because I’m back in the country. Of course, I know they’re just doing what they’ve always done. I’m always available for those things. Lunches and fund-raisers have always been more play than anything, and a “meeting” is just another name for a social gathering for drinks at a posh restaurant.
A thought occurs to me, striking me momentarily speechless.
“Marissa?” Del’s voice brings me back to the conversation.
“What? Oh, sorry. Um, no, don’t put anything on my schedule yet. I’m not sure when I’ll be back in the office. Or back to work, for that matter. I’ve got some things I need to tend to first.” I pause before I ask Del a question, a question related to the thought I had. A question I’m not entirely certain I want the answer to. “Um, Del, has anyone called about the Peachburg accounts? It’s about time for them to follow up.”
The Peachburg accounts are the ones that Daddy and I went to the Caymans to look at. At the time I thought nothing of him bringing along a “team” to help and to familiarize themselves with the accounts, but now it seems like much more. Now, it makes sense.
“No, ma’am. I think Garrett Dickinson is handling most of that now.”
The blow is crushing. The disappointment of reality sits on my chest like a five-hundred-pound gorilla. My suspicion was correct.
“Okay, thank you. I’ll be in touch with a date when you can open up my schedule.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I’m ready to hang up when Del stops me. “Marissa?”
“Yes?”
“Is everything okay? I mean, you can talk to me if you need to.”
I can tell her offer is genuine. If anything, I think her kindness actually hurts. It’s not that I’ve ever been mean to Deliane, but I’ve never treated her as anything more than an employee. A lowly one. I’ve never given her more thought than a go-between for all the people I know and the activities we’re involved in. She could’ve been automated for all the credit I gave her.
But now I see very clearly that she’s a real person, one much better than me. She’s extending an offer of help and comfort to someone who’s never given her more than the most basic of polite gestures. She’s rushing to the aid of someone who doesn’t merit her consideration.
“Thank you, Del. I might take you up on that,” I say, even though I know I won’t. She doesn’t deserve me unloading on her.
“You’ve got my cell. Call me anytime.”
“I appreciate that, Del. I’ll be in touch.”
After we disconnect, I let my phone drop to the carpet between my feet. I think back over the years since I graduated law school and passed the bar exam. I think of all the accounts my father has “brought me in on” or told me he’s “grooming me to take over.” Each one, for one reason or another, ended up being someone else’s baby while he moved me on to something else. Every meeting he ever asked me to attend was more an informal kind of meet-and-greet than anything with teeth, anything where we actually reviewed numbers or talked real business. What my father has been grooming me for is to be the wife of an important person. He’s taught me how to conduct myself in the company of some of the richest, most powerful people in the world. He’s taught me how to raise tons of money for causes that make us look like decent people, and he’s taught me how to throw a party with the best of them. But not once has he ever trusted me with something that’s actually important, that requires the knowledge I went to school for years to obtain.
Not. Once.