Just sit. I wasn’t going to go to sleep. Even though it would be so easy to go to sleep, to just sit down and rest my aching feet and let all my problems melt away as I drifted off into slumber…
I watched the sun set over the city, the smog splintering its rays into paradoxically beautiful prisms of color, red and purple and pink and gold, a sunset straight out of a postcard from the board of tourism. I thought of the sunset over the lake at Hunter’s plantation, just as beautiful but somehow less showy, the colors deeper, more permanent.
Then I thought of Paige, some future Paige, watching that beautiful sunset with Hunter. I thought of him leaning in to kiss her, his eyes lit by that sweetly dying light. I thought of Paige’s slight gasp, quickly smothered by those soft, insistent lips, of her delight as she discovered those intoxicating kisses I already knew all too well, that scrape of his stubble, that taste that was him and only him.
A tear dripped down my cheek.
“Miss Bartlett?”
I hadn’t heard Chuck come up behind me. I braced myself.
Chuck. Just the very last person I wanted to see.
But he didn’t say a further word, just offered me his handkerchief.
“Thanks.” I scrubbed furiously at my face, then handed it back. “I’m fine.”
“Of course you are,” he said, his voice low and soothing as a lullaby. “You’re a strong young lady who can take on anything. You’ve really impressed me with your tenacity.”
The words leapt out of my mouth before I could stop them: “Glad I’m impressing someone.”
Oh, Ally, Ally, Ally, I could almost hear my mother saying. When will you ever learn to think before you speak?
It didn’t really matter that I couldn’t recall the context of that memory. It could have been any time within the past twenty-four years of my life.
“Hunter not appreciating you?” Chuck’s voice held nothing but sympathy, and he waved away my sound of protest. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of prying further. I’m sure I’ve heard this story before; he leaves a string of hearts in his wake, young Hunter. He doesn’t understand how deeply women feel things, particularly smart, passionate, artistic young women like you.”
Flattery will get you everywhere with me. Even if you’re a snake. “Well, I guess I am—” But I couldn’t get a word in edgewise, and Chuck plowed on.
“There’s nothing malicious about it; it’s just that when you get right down to it, the man’s rather shallow. He sees a pretty face and the women he strings along hope he sees something more.” He shook his head, mournful and earnest. “Don’t be embarrassed, Miss Bartlett. I’ve seen it all from him at least a hundred times before.”
“It’s not like that!” I snapped, the tears threatening again, but I held them at bay with an iron will. I couldn’t let him think I was some floozy, sleeping her way to the top; not after all I’d sacrificed to keep my good name. “Hunter and I—‘s not like that. We’re just—I’m jus’ sick of Hunter being so self-centered, is all. All ‘I’m Hunter Knox’ like that—like that…”
I waved my hand, trying to convey what I couldn’t with words. Some distant part of my brain noted that my hand was unsteady and I tried to keep it from wavering. I couldn’t let Chuck guess how much alcohol I’d consumed. I couldn’t let him guess because—
Because—
It was really hard to remember the reason. He was being so nice to me.
He patted my shoulder. “Oh, really? Hunter may have his faults, but being egotistical in business—well, frankly it doesn’t seem like him.”
His disbelief goaded me further. “Well, it is! He can’t see how people are trying to help him, he just wants to do it all himself, and all he can do is, is, is—insult everyone, call them names, say they’ve wasted their life on the job they love—I tried to…I mean, other people really care about the company, but he jus’, just is all—” I forgot my need to keep my gestures small, waved my hands like I was conducting a large orchestra—“wanting to run everything himself, gotta turn everything around all by himself and it’s like the family name is freaking sacred or some shit—some ish, some—” I blushed at my profane slip but more words kept burbling out of my lubricated throat. “It’s more than just a product to him, like—like—like he’s a freaking mishin—mish—missionary or something!”
There was a grin in Chuck’s voice, but my mind couldn’t quite put a reason to it. Reasons were very far away and unimportant at the moment, unconnected to me and my anger and the muggy night air.
“That sounds awful,” Chuck sympathized. “Do tell me more, you poor thing.”
And God help me, I did.
#