I prepare myself for the decision I have to make.
If I have to give up my feelings and attraction to Owen Westbrook, then you can be damn sure I’ll be putting my all into my company.
And when I’m a well-established name in my own right—when I have my own money and can break away from Carl—I’ll aim for Owen again.
Well, there’s no harm in trying, right? Ambition is good for you.
Hunkering down in front of my new desk and even newer computer, I work out a game plan for organizing the office space into the perfect working environment that I truly need it to be.
I call a few people, arranging for supplies, food and clothes to be sent to the new office, then set about cleaning the kitchen while I wait.
Not that it really needs cleaning. I just need something to do to keep my mind off of Owen.
Thankfully, new clothes arrive first. Shirking off my ruined dress and placing Owen’s suit jacket gently over the back of my desk chair, I throw on a camisole top and a pair of form-fitting leggings—the kind of clothes that won’t get in my way while I get down to some hard work.
I look at Owen’s jacket. I hope he doesn’t ask for it back.
At the very least, I want to keep hold of something.
My food delivery arrives: gourmet pizza and a root-beer float, because that’s what a broken heart needs, right?
I take it over to one of the beautiful red sofas with a view over the river.
I gorge on the food, eating my feelings à la Bridget Jones. Admittedly, it makes me feel a little better—though some wine definitely wouldn’t go amiss, either.
Part of me wonders if Owen thinks I’m too young for him. Maybe he wants someone more mature.
Another part of me thinks that it just turns him on even more—the idea that he can have any woman he wants, even if she’s barely out of grad school.
I shake my head slightly at the idea, then pick myself up off the sofa.
“Time to get to work, Miss Wilder,” I say in lieu of a pep talk.
You can do this. You’ve gotten this far already.
When my office supplies arrive, I spend hours rearranging the office, unpacking, shelving, organizing and filing.
It’s menial, boring work—and exactly what I need.
By the time I’m done, the sun has long since set.
I collapse into my desk chair, swiveling back and forth as I eat the remains of my cold pizza—I don’t have the energy to head over to the kitchen and reheat it.
I successfully staved off all thoughts of Owen for the day.
But now they’re back, as if they never left.
I squeeze my hands between my thighs, frustrated beyond belief.
“It’s not fair,” I complain aloud, knowing I sound entirely like a petulant child.
I look at my computer. A few new emails have shown up in my inbox while I was organizing the office, so I glance through them.
A feel a frown deepening on my face as I ingest the contents of one of the emails properly.
It’s from Carl; it causes me to bring up all of our previous correspondence.