Me and my normal ten p.m. bedtime and Vince and his energizer bunny energy that never waned through the entire night and early morning as he shot take after take after take for the video.
And as he made demand after demand after demand of me. Always playful. Completely unnecessary since he had an assistant on set. But demands nonetheless under McMann’s careful eye to remind me that my only choice was to do what he asked or risk my job.
Prick.
Then why is there a soft smile on my face? Why did I find myself laughing at the jokes Vince was making with the crew while trying to stay mad at him for personal reasons? Why did I find that anger I was trying to hold on to solely to keep him at a distance, slowly dissolving?
Probably the same reason I need to hold Jagger right now. Because some things are just so natural that they’re hard to let go of.
I stifle my yawn, knowing I need to get to sleep. My late night doesn’t mean I get to skip work tomorrow.
And tomorrow brings more Vince.
I was na?ve to think this day would never come. It was even more ridiculous to think if it did, that I could write it off and it wouldn’t matter.
How could I have thought that when my life has been labeled in three parts. With Vince. After Vince. And After After Vince. And no matter how much I tell myself I resent and dislike him with every part of my being after everything we’ve been through, he’s always been a part of my life.
Ever since that first day he walked into the tutoring session with a busted lip and a bad attitude my freshman year.
The memories hit. One after another. The good. The bad. The ugly. And the one incredible thing that I got from all of this despite the pain and the doubt and the hardship.
But then there’s the guilt, still there after all this time. Still making me wonder and question if I’ve done the right thing. Will Jagger hate the choices I’ve made for him?
Surely it’s better not to know your father than believing you’re unwanted. The question I’ve often asked myself is whether Vince still feels the same. That the last thing he’d ever want is to have someone carry on the Jennings name.
Do you have regrets? That’s a long time to harbor something if so.
Regrets? No. That night gave me the most important thing in my life.
But I’ve done this alone. Right, wrong, or indifferent, when he cut off every means of communication with me without knowing why I needed to get ahold of him, I made decisions that to this day, I’d make again if I had to.
When it came down to it, he shut me out and moved on with his life while my whole world shifted and then spun onto a different axis.
And regardless of his crooked smile and witty charm, I need to remember this.
I was the one who reached out. Who tried. Who was rejected.
I thought I’d made peace with my decisions and buried the hurt that came with it. Now I’m not so sure . . . about anything really.
Besides the shock of seeing Vince again, today brought so many unknowns to the surface. Unknowns that I need to figure out answers for. Unknowns that could turn my perfect, chaotic, carefully crafted world upside down.
Unknowns that once seemed so concrete and now seem extremely selfish when I never thought of them as being that before.
“Oh, Jagg,” I murmur into the darkness, pulling him even closer against me. “What am I supposed to do now?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bristol
I stride into the Burbank office with an espresso in one hand, two bottles of liquid energy shots in my purse, and thoughts of how quickly this day can pass so I can catch up on my sleep.
Because the little sleep I finally got wasn’t enough. Dreams plagued my sleep. Ones that rewound time and reminded me of things I’d long forgotten.
But I’m on more sure footing today. I took the extra time I didn’t have to do my hair and makeup when normally it’s a topknot and a brush or two of mascara. I think that’s maybe why I felt off-kilter last night when it came to seeing Vince—well, besides the obvious reasons. So today, I figured I’d fix what I could on my end to make sure I didn’t feel that way again.
As I make my way through the cubical maze of junior associates’ desks, heads pop up like whack-a-moles, glancing toward the conference room, before sitting back down just as quickly. There’s more of a low buzz of conversation than normal.
The last time the office was this distracted was when senior associate, Lilah Glasnow was fired for sleeping with her client. The last thing McMann wants is for his firm to appear unprofessional, and when those rumors started flying, her walking papers were typed up. She didn’t go without a fight. There was a shouting match with insults hurled and threats made while we all sat with our heads down, listening to every single, deliciously scandalous word of it.
I look for Simone in her cubicle, knowing she’ll give me the scoop, but she’s not there. However, I find her sitting in my chair, at my desk, with her arms crossed, her eyebrows raised, and her feet propped up on my desk.
“Make yourself at home, why don’t you?” I say, noticing she’s pushed aside my frame so that my collage of Jagger is facing the wall of the cube.
“I have. Thanks.” She places one of the peanut butter cups I leave in a dish on my desk in her mouth and smiles while chewing it, her eyes never breaking from mine.
“What?” I ask, already on the defensive because I know that look.
“I didn’t even garner a phone call?” she says.
“For what?” But I already know.
It’s why necks are craning toward the conference room. Why the chatter is muted but still excited. We’re used to celebrity sightings around here. It’s what our company does, but not every celebrity holds the same mystique as the man I’m more than certain is sitting in said conference room.
“Vincent freaking Jennings?” Simone says, confirming my hunch. “First, you find out who the hush-hush client is, and you don’t say a word.” She points to one finger. “Second, you’ve been assigned as his handler—a freaking promotion—and you neglect to call.” She points to another. “And lastly, let me reiterate, Vincent freaking Jennings.” She throws her hands up. “I thought you were my girl, but nope, you leave my ass out in the cold and don’t say a damn word.”
“I didn’t get home till after three in the morning, and I was under the impression that your ass was otherwise occupied.” I cross my arms over my chest and lean against one of the gray fabric, portable walls.
“I was, oh was I,” she murmurs, her eyes alive with suggestion, “but that doesn’t mean a girl isn’t going to check her texts during that post-coital glow period.”
“Jesus.” I roll my eyes.
“I mean, I hand you this gift, and I don’t even get a smoke signal to tell me what’s going on. I had to show up today and be knocked on my ass when that . . .”—she mock shivers— “gorgeous beauty of a man stepped into the elevator right before the doors closed. I mean he was close enough for me to touch. To stealthily stare at the very intricate designs of his tattoos. To smell his cologne.”
“Simone—”
“There needed to be a ‘clean-up on aisle five’ from the puddle of . . . me, that was all over that elevator floor.”
“Whatever.”
“But you already knew how good all of those things were because you spent the whole night with him. Beside him. Listening to him.” She puts the back of her hand to her forehead and pretends as if she’s fainted. Dramatics are definitely her strong suit. “Lusting after him.”
“Refilling his drink and getting him whatever he asked for.”
“Please say he asked for me.” She holds out her hands as if they are handcuffed together. “You can serve me up on a platter to him.”
“Says the girl who was otherwise busy getting laid.”