There were no hugs, no smiles, but even at a young age, Taylor had felt her aunt’s confidence. Her competence.
An hour later, the paperwork was complete and they’d walked out of the station side by side, although not hand in hand, to the black sedan her aunt had hired to drive her to and from the airport.
A few hours after that, they’d arrived at Karen’s apartment overlooking Central Park, and just like that, Taylor’s new life had begun.
Her aunt had never married, and to Taylor’s knowledge, she’d never even considered it. Reading between the lines, Taylor had to imagine that her aunt hadn’t planned on children either, but Karen Carr was hardly the type of woman to resist responsibility.
Taylor had no father figure and, thanks to her aunt’s influence, had never really figured out a use for men. Sure, she’d had her share of awkward first kisses in high school, plenty of hookups in college, but she’d never fancied herself in love.
Hadn’t believed in it. Not in the bitter, been-burned kind of way, just in the didn’t-need-it sense.
She liked men. Liked their size, the way they kissed, the way the male body felt above her, below her, whatever. But not for keeps. Never for keeps.
Still…
She’d thought that things with Bradley could be different.
Or at least she’d hoped.
Hoped that being compatible, never fighting, and enjoying the same types of wine were enough to make it work in the long term.
Damn it, she at least wanted the chance.
But now, instead of nesting with Bradley, she was rooming with Nick Ballantine, of all people, which left her feeling off balance as all heck.
Taylor did not like feeling off balance, and she knew exactly where to direct her irritation.
Bradley’s door was closed, but she knew that she was on his calendar because he’d accepted her meeting invite, which she was taking as a good sign.
She didn’t stop to think that she was a couple of minutes early before rapping an impatient knuckle against the door and opening it, as she had a million times before.
Except in all those times, she’d never been greeted by this sight.
The other woman sprang backward, but not fast enough. Taylor still registered all the crucial details. The way Bradley’s hands fell away from the other woman’s hips, the way his eyes were filled first with pain and then with regret as they met Taylor’s with resigned apology.
Taylor jerked her gaze away. She couldn’t look at him…couldn’t breathe.
Instead she looked at the other woman, and was a little surprised to realize she knew her.
“Jessica?”
The other woman smiled, and while Taylor would have expected the smile to be bitchy and self-satisfied, instead it was shy and…kind.
Of course it was. This was Jessica…what was her last name?
Hayes?
Yes. Jessica Hayes. The quiet copywriter who occasionally came to their team meeting, but whom mostly everyone communicated with via email.
“Taylor,” Bradley said in his wonderfully smooth voice. “This is Jess.”
“Yes,” she managed, relieved her voice was steady. “I know Jess—”
Her voice broke off. Jess.
Jess. Not Jessica. Jess.
Her eyes flew back to Bradley. “Jess. As in your ex-girlfriend?”
The mysterious Jess had been Bradley’s one secret. Taylor had known of her existence, known that they’d ended things not long before he met Taylor, but not much more than that.
And certainly not that the woman worked at Oxford. Had been right there under Taylor’s nose the entire time.
Taylor racked her brain for everything she knew about Jessica the copywriter, and came up with…not much.
The other woman was pretty, in a quiet sort of way. Huge blue eyes, thick lashes that bore no trace of mascara. Straight dark hair that was shiny but cut in a straight, boring line. Taylor seemed to remember she often wore glasses, although she didn’t have them on at the moment. Jessica did have great full lips, even without a trace of gloss, Taylor would give her that, but…
“Jess isn’t my ex,” Bradley was saying quietly. “Not anymore.”
The words crashed around Taylor, and she took a step backward.
Jessica made a soft noise of dismay and shot Bradley an incredulous look before she took a step toward Taylor. “Taylor. Please. We never meant—”
“Don’t,” Taylor pleaded, horrified to feel a hard knot in her throat that felt suspiciously like impending tears.
Taylor Carr did not cry. Other than that one time.
Taylor, darling, you must stop. In the history of everything, crying has never solved a single problem.
With her aunt’s voice in her head, Taylor lifted her chin and forced her gaze back to Bradley.
“This is why? You left me a letter on the day we were supposed to move in together because you were getting back together with your ex?”
“This isn’t a conversation for now, Taylor,” Bradley said, his tone sharp.
“No, it’s not,” Taylor shot back. “It was a conversation for last week, when you should have dumped me like a man. Face-to-face.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she could have sworn she saw Jessica try to hide a shocked look, but Taylor kept her attention on Bradley.
His face creased in remorse. “Taylor—”
She didn’t stick around to let him finish the sentence with some pathetic platitude in front of his ex—no, current girlfriend.
Taylor walked out of his office, chin held high, hips swaying.
Karen would be proud of her, and though Taylor tried desperately to cling to that as a source of comfort, it wasn’t enough.
Her aunt had taught her a hell of a lot, but there was one crucial life skill her guardian had never passed on.
How to survive a broken heart.
Chapter 8
“For the last time, I’m not talking to you about this,” Nick said into the phone as he dug his keys out of his pocket and shifted the phone to his other ear.
The frustrated huff on the other end was a familiar sound—his younger sister, Celine, had started making it sometime around the age of nine. Now she was well into her twenties, and the indignant sound had not changed…not at all.
“You can’t expect me to believe you’re living platonically with a woman,” Celine said. “That doesn’t even make sense. Unless she’s a lesbian. Is she? Let me talk to her. I want to tell her about how you put empty milk cartons back in the fridge.”
“I haven’t done that since I was fifteen,” he muttered, pushing the door open and wondering just why he’d thought it’d be a good idea to call his baby sister on the way home from work.
A blast of sound greeted Nick, and he halted. Having survived living with two sisters during their teenage years, Nick was all too familiar with what he thought of as “angry woman” music: the angsty, pissed-off songs a woman scorned would listen to.
It was exactly the sound that greeted him at home on Monday evening after wrapping up his day shift at the bar.
“Let me call you back later,” he said to Celine, hanging up before she could protest.