“Your father used to tell me that the word fine coming from my mouth meant that he’d better duck and run.”
His father’s voice had mostly faded from his memory, but he could almost hear him saying that.
“Sweetheart, how is Erica? Does she love this other man? The last time she was here, she said their relationship wasn’t serious.”
He shrugged before realizing she couldn’t see it. When he opened his mouth to respond, she said, “I felt the shrug and I call baloney on it.”
He turned away, forgetting how tuned in her other senses had become, and calling bullshit on himself, too.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.” She released his hands. “But the minute I go back into the dining room, your brothers are going to barge in here. I had to give them my mom glare to keep them out. You know the one, don’t you, sweetie?”
“I know it all too well.” He and his brothers had been rambunctious boys, and he’d been on the receiving end of that particular look more times than he cared to remember. “I should probably just go. You don’t need me ruining dinner.” He ran a hand through his hair, and she searched the air for his hand again.
“You’re right, we don’t need you ruining dinner. But you need us, so come on.” She led him back into the dining room, where his brothers glared at him like they knew he’d done the most heinous thing he could ever do—hurt Laney.
As he sank to his chair, he met each of their stares, and rather than pretend he hadn’t done what they feared, he told the truth.
“She’s better off with him.”
Even if it kills me.
Chapter Eleven
LANEY HOVERED OVER her desk, reviewing next month’s fashion layout for Wild Side and trying not to think about how her life was spinning out of control. It had been two days since she’d spoken to Jackson—and two days since she’d told Bryce that she’d come home early but couldn’t see him until the weekend. Bryce hadn’t been thrilled to have to wait to see her, but as always, he’d understood, as she’d used work as her excuse for returning early from her trip and for not having time to see him. She felt as discombobulated as she had when her parents had first separated. Only about a hundred times worse.
She’d hardly slept since returning from the mountains, spending her days trying to distract herself from thinking about either Bryce or Jackson, but nothing worked. She spent far too much time using her nonexistent powers to will her cell phone to ring with a call or vibrate with a text from Jackson. She should just call him. Or go see him. They were both stubborn. No one knew that better than her. It was one of the reasons they got along so well—they understood each other’s quirks, weaknesses, strengths, and soft spots.
He didn’t think he was good enough for her. He didn’t think he could commit. Well, he committed to everything he ever wanted to commit to, so what did that say about them?
She was way too confused to figure any of this out. The day a man proposed was supposed to be the happiest day of a woman’s life. Instead, Bryce’s proposal felt like a death sentence—and that was even more stupid! He was a good man, an honest man. A man she could be happy enough with.
Her cell phone buzzed, and she scrambled to snag it from the corner of her desk.
Her heart skipped at the name on her cell phone screen—Charlize Martin, Zac Posen’s assistant. Clutching the phone tightly, she whispered, “Please, please, please,” then opened and read the text message.
Good news! Mr. Posen has agreed to the interview. Pls call to schedule.
“Yes!” Her chest swelled with excitement. She immediately pushed the speed-dial button for Jackson, turning on her heels and grinning like a fool. As the second ring sounded, she realized what she’d done and hung up.
“Fuck,” she whispered to the empty room. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” She paced by the window. Something wonderful had happened and the first person she wanted to call was Jackson? Not Bryce. Not one of her girlfriends or her assistant. But Jackson?
It was always Jackson.
Before the proposal, it never felt wrong that he was the center of her universe.
She turned at a knock at her door and managed a semi-smile as George, her assistant of three years, walked into the room, carrying a bouquet of white roses. His spiky hair and skinny slacks gave his already lanky body an even thinner appearance.
“I heard a very loud, ‘Yes!’ Does that mean someone’s in a good mood?” He set the flowers on the desk, positioning them just right in the sun. “And does it have anything to do with these lovely flowers?”
“I have no idea.” Jackson doesn’t send flowers. “No. I’m sure not, actually. It has to do with this.” She handed him her cell phone just as it vibrated.