Forever, Jack: eversea book two (Volume 2)
Natasha Boyd
To my husband
for asking me to marry him on our first date
And to
Al Chaput and Dave McDonald
I may never have taken writing seriously without you. I am forever grateful for your time, patience, encouragement and expertise.
Thank you
The sound of the front door slamming after Andy seems to jar everyone into action. Not me. My heart is pounding, my hand is throbbing, and my stomach is roiling, but I don’t move.
“Jesus,” says Devon. He strides to stand beside me, the only friend I seem to have right now. “We need to get Sheila on the phone, like, yesterday. We need damage control. I’ve never trusted that little fucker.” He jerks his head after the agent I just fired.
I replay the scene in my head. Andy’s smug face as he congratulated himself on keeping me in line by faking my girlfriend’s pregnancy. Girlfriend? Audrey may be my contractual girlfriend, but our relationship just had its final death throe.
The mention of Sheila, my publicist, causes me to look up and stare Audrey straight in the eyes. She is standing there unmoving, I guess unsure of what to do since I snapped. Her brown eyes are large and watery. A look I’ve fallen for before. “Or does Sheila already know, Audrey? Was she in on this pregnancy hoax? Was this part of your team ‘management’ of poor fucking clueless Jack Eversea?” My voice is harsh, like I just screamed it hoarse. Something I wish I could do.
She shakes her head vehemently, a tear streaking down her cheek.
I grit my teeth against the instinctual urge to comfort and protect her like I always have. Ever since our contrived romance began years ago, brokered out of a movie franchise to keep the fans engaged in the love story. She was a friend, and at times something more. A partner. Or so I thought.
Devon taps out something on his phone.
After everything, I’m still finding it hard to believe Audrey’s lied to me like this. About something like this.
“No, Jack. It wasn’t me, it was all Andy,” she tries.
“Oh please, Audrey, show me the fucking courtesy of honesty at this point.”
“I swear—”
I snort dismissively.
“Wait, Jack,” she pleads. “I went along with it, I admit, but it was his idea. I confided in him after I was … late.”
I swallow hard. Oh my God. She was late. Of course she was. I’m guilty as charged. It’s why I believed her so readily. It’s why I left Butler Cove. The knowledge of my part in this cools my anger, leaving crashing guilt in its wake. Followed by equal parts panic. “So …” I start, keeping my voice as steady as possible. “So, are you still … late?” I can’t say pregnant anymore. I just assumed after what Andy said that she wasn’t, but …
Audrey hiccups out a sob, and I take an instinctual step toward her, catching myself just in time. I take a moment to really look at her then and see true grief. Though her face is flushed and swollen from tears, she is still beautiful standing there in her white dress and her long dark, chestnut hair coming in gentle waves over her shoulder. She’s banking on this, I know. Banking on the fact that she is beautiful and we have … history. But I also see her sadness.
It occurs to me then, that Audrey, far from filling contractual obligations in our friends-with-benefits pairing, might have truly been in love with me.
Snippets of her words come back to me now with new meaning. About how suited we are, how it would be the last laugh if we eventually got married and had a family one day, how we’d be a team of respect and friendship.
The idea that she might actually still be pregnant despite the fact that Andy used the news to their advantage makes my throat seize. No, she’s not. It wouldn’t have gone down like it did if she was. I feel like I’m drowning in some bizarre dream where the life raft is right there, but just out of reach.
Blowing out a deep breath, I fist my good hand at my side and wince in pain as my injured hand tries to follow suit.
Audrey hangs her head. “I lost it. I lost the baby,” she whispers, her voice breaking.
My insides lurch violently. Nausea caused by the sickeningly sweet rush of relief, sandwiched between the hard press of guilt, leaves me swallowing back bile. I suck my lips between my teeth and bite down hard, trying to get my shit together. “When? Are you … are you ok?” I get out, finally. I’m vaguely aware that we are the only ones left in the room, the others having thankfully filed out.