After the Climb (River Rain 0.50)

Prescott was awesome.

But I could not stay here a week, and that wasn’t about Prescott.

I opened my mouth to tell her that (or part of it), but my with-it Mary got there before me.

“I’ll pack a bag. Or two. I might have them couriered up there so you’ll have some selections, just in case it takes me a while to coordinate getting the Cayenne to you.”

“Mary, I’d rather be down in Phoenix.”

“Okay. I’ll get you a room. But I’m going to have to keep Cookie. Those hotels don’t take pets.”

I hesitated.

I wanted to believe Cookie could not do without me, but in truth, she probably could.

However, she wouldn’t like it.

She loved her mommy.

“So which one? The Phoenician? The Biltmore?” Mary prompted.

“They don’t take pets?”

“Well, not cats.”

This never failed to annoy me.

Dogs always got preferential treatment.

Not that I didn’t like dogs. I loved them.

I just didn’t like them getting preferential treatment.

“Maybe I can stay with Chloe,” I murmured.

She snorted.

Actually snorted.

Yes, that was not a good idea.

Chloe loved and adored Cookie like Cookie was her actual blood, except feline.

She also loved and adored me.

But she lived in a small, trendy condo in a downtown, trendy neighborhood that was covered from morning brunch, until nightclub-hopping night with hipsters.

She didn’t have an extra bedroom, for one.

And just leaving her place, I’d be covered in millennials fresh off a Rita’s Way Netflix binge.

It had happened.

It wasn’t pretty.

“I’ll stay here,” I allowed.

“Cool,” she said breezily.

“But please, stay on top of the situation at the condo. I’d like to be home as soon as possible.”

“Do you want Cookie going with the courier or—?”

Had she lost her mind?

“No, no strangers. But if Chloe can’t come up with you very soon with the car, I’d like you to come up with Cookie. Or we can hire the service to follow you up and you can drive my car, then they can take you back down.”

“You got it. And I’ll cancel them for tomorrow.”

“Thanks, as ever, for taking care of things.”

“That’s my job, boss. As you know.”

I rolled my eyes.

I had Mary as my snappy assistant.

I had Chloe as my dramatic daughter.

I had Matt as my in-his-father’s image (though I’d never say that right now, but it was all the good parts, and my boy would remember soon there were a lot of them) sweet, funny, protective son.

And I had Sasha, my beautiful boho brat, camping at Coachella and up to her knees in mud at Glastonbury.

I downed the rest of my champagne.

After that, I said goodbye to my assistant.

I then got off the bed, put my phone on to charge, filled my glass, and took the dome from the cookies so I could take the plate to the bed.

One of the many wonderful things that came from semi-retirement born of financial and career freedom, and being at an age where they didn’t care much about me, and I no longer cared about them, but having a name that gave me endless clout, was the fact that I didn’t have to starve myself to meet the ideal of every producer, director and studio head who had control over me and whether or not I would work.

This was the thought I had before I bit into the first cookie.

Sadly, the loveliness of that faded when my thoughts turned to the fact that I was, in a sense, stuck in what was now Duncan’s hometown.

He didn’t strike me as a man who lunched on tapas or browsed through art galleries and boutiques. He had a business to run, likely trails to hike, perhaps horses to ride, etc.

Therefore, it was improbable I would run into him.

And I ate my way through two cookies, attempting to convince myself that was a good thing.

But there were not enough cookies in the world to beat back the emotions when the box I’d been holding Corey’s treachery in burst open.

And the pain, when it came, was acute and very, very real.

So real, I had to set my champagne aside and double over to fight it.

Twenty-eight years, we’d had dinners, lunches, even holidays together.

Twenty-eight years, he’d spent time with my husband, my children…me.

Twenty-eight years, he’d allowed me to show him love, friendship. He’d come to me to support him when he broke up with girlfriends, come to me to listen to him rail about his enemies, come to me when his dad died, when his protégé left and set up his own company.

Ah, the betrayal!

He’d taught that guy everything.

How could he do that?

How could he do that to poor, billionaire, perfidious Corey?

“How could you do that, Corey?” I whispered to my thighs, beginning to rock in the bed. “How could you do that to Bowie?”

Yes, rocking, rocking deep.

“To me?”

At that, the sobs came.

And such was my heartache, much like when I lost Duncan…

No, exactly like when I lost Duncan, and wouldn’t Corey be so proud he’d accomplished this?