Swallow it! Swallow it all!
“It can get a little bumpy.” Alex smiles. “But don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. When I was in Thailand, I learned how to kite-surf, this is just like it. You just bounce, and roll, and sway with the breeze . . .”
Oh shit!
The unthinkable happens: the contents of my stomach come rushing up my throat. I push Alex away, turn around and vomit over the edge of the basket, trying not to open my eyes and look down as I puke—probably all over the scantily clad sunbathers in the park.
I straighten up with a groan—in time to see Alex’s horrified expression.
Date over.
27
Jake
I figured Lizzie might need some time to cool off, so I decide to give her some space. But over the next week, it’s like some dating tsunami hit the office. Every day, I’m forced to watch Lizzie get picked up for lunch or dinner by a procession of guys, each more good-looking than the next. She walks through the hallways giggling and whispering into her phone, and her office could probably double as a Hallmark factory, with all the huge bouquets that arrive. They’re scattered on every available surface—along with hampers of champagne and French cheeses and boxes of pink frosted cupcakes.
Worst of all, she seems happy—really happy. Which should make me happy for her. But I’m not. In fact, every time I see her walking out the door with one of these guys, or unwrapping yet another box of Godiva chocolates with a dreamy smile, I want to punch something. But there’s no use getting mad since it’s nobody’s fault but mine.
Which somehow, pisses me off more than anything else.
Looking back on it, I definitely should’ve told her about the bounty from the beginning. But even though I technically had nothing to do with the damn thing, I know that she’ll never forgive me. Who am I kidding? She barely even looks at me anymore. And to make matters worse, every time I see her get up from her desk in one of those sundresses she wears that show off every one of her lush, gorgeous curves, all I can think about is that night in the hotel, how fucking incredible it felt to make her scream my name—and how hard I came all over that amazing body.
I want her again. Fuck, I need her. But she looks at me like dog shit she’s scraped off her shoe, and she shows no sign of forgetting any time soon.
Monday morning, we’ve got a staff meeting, so I head to Morgan’s office. The whole team is there, gathered around the table, but Lizzie barely glances my way.
“We’re two weeks out from the opening,” Lizzie starts, looking down at her notes on her iPad. “I’m happy to report that we’re right on track. We’ve secured all of the major pieces, with the exception of the necklace from Bring Me the Stars.” She looks up at me, acknowledging my existence for the first time. “But Jake is working on that.”
I nod in agreement, not wanting to interrupt.
“The events team has been reaching out to as many stars as possible for the gala. I’ll let them fill you in, but we did just hear today that Marlena Stafford has RSVP’d yes!”
“THE Marlena Stafford?” a guy in Asian Arts who’s wearing an actual ascot around his neck blurts out. “Movie star Marlena Stafford? Been in a hundred or so amazing films Marlena Stafford?” he says in awe.
“The very same.” Lizzie beams, and I’m surprised she doesn’t burst out in a tap dance. “She was just eight years old when she played Janey in Bring Me the Stars. She’s the only living cast member, and she’s been a recluse these past years, but she’s agreed to make an exception for the opening to do some press—a few photos and interviews. She still loves the film and she wants to help support its legacy.”
“This is all very impressive, Lizzie,” Morgan says, staring at Lizzie with an expression not unlike actual respect. “Now,” she begins again, walking over to the far end of the room and switching the lights off, projecting a list on the screen at the front of the room. “Let’s discuss the checklist for the gala . . .”
After the meeting, I walk over to Lizzie, who’s fielding congratulations from her co-workers, chattering happily.
“Good job getting Marlena,” I say, feeling a little hurt that I had to find out at the meeting with everyone else. “You didn’t tell me.”
“Yeah, sorry!” she says in a chipper voice, looking up and blinking at me from behind her glasses like I’m a stranger. “I’ve got a lot going on—I’m juggling a ton right now. And speaking of which . . .” She looks down at her watch. “I have to go—I’ve got a lunch date!”
“What’s it today?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Flying lessons?”
“Ha!” she laughs breezily, slinging her overstuffed bag over one shoulder. “Thankfully, no. Just a simple picnic in the park.”
“Sounds nice,” I say grudgingly as Simon from acquisitions comes waltzing in, his face breaking into a huge grin at the sight of her. Simon is decent enough, I guess, but so tweedy and correct that he’ll probably chastise her for eating with her hands.
“You ready, Lizzie?” he asks, holding up a large bag from Dean and Deluca, a baguette sticking out of the top.
“You bet!” she says happily, hustling out of the room, and the minute she’s gone the room is so quiet—too quiet.
I finish up and head home, but I can’t help imagining them together on a patch of grass somewhere in the park, eating bread and cheese and looking into each other’s eyes. I can feel the jealousy rising up in my chest, and every time it does, I try to shove it back down. I have no reason to feel this possessive. So we hooked up a few times? It’s not like we were dating or anything—not even close.
But fuck all these guys, flocking around her when they only want one thing. Sure, she wants romance, but she’s going about it all wrong. Is this Simon really going to get all her movie references and laugh at her jokes? Can he appreciate her sarcasm? Does he even know she gets hungry and headachy if she goes too long without a snack?
There’s no way.
But what does it matter? She’s made it clear, I broke her trust.
The problem is, I have no idea how to win it back again.
I sit down at my desk and open my laptop and try to work. There’s a guy in England who collects mint-condition My Little Ponies from the 1990s and is willing to pay a pretty penny for me to find Majesty’s Dream Castle set, so I spend the evening making calls. But I can’t stop thinking about Lizzie sprawled in the grass, the sunlight beaming down on her face while that Simon guy feeds her grapes. Which is just dumb, because she’d prefer chocolate-covered pretzels from that cart on Fifth Avenue any day.
Finally, I give up on the Dream Castle and dial her number instead.
After a few rings, she picks up, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Hey,” she croaks.
“What happened to you?” I ask.
“I don’t know . . .” Her voice trails off weakly for a moment before returning. “It was something I ate. I think I have food poisoning.”