The Dirty Truth

“Good things?”

“Confusing things.”

Indie chews a mouthful of cereal, nodding as if in silent agreement with her own thoughts. “I can’t tell you what to do, but I think it’d be weird if you didn’t take your own advice.”

Gripping the handle of my suitcase, I wheel it down the hall. “Going to grab a shower.”

As I strip out of last night’s clothes and step into the streaming hot water, I think of West.

I think of him again when I’m warming a bowl of soup for lunch. And later, when I’m washing my sheets. I think of him that afternoon as I take a stroll around the block. And at night, when I mindlessly page through a chapter of the new book I started over the weekend, I stop to think about West then.

I think about him in a whole new light.

And I ask myself that million-dollar question: What if?

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

WEST

“HR lined up a few interviews to fill Elle Napier’s position,” Miranda says over speakerphone Wednesday afternoon. “I’ll add them to your iCal if you want to listen in. I think there are a few promising candidates we’re absorbing from the City Gent merger, though. Tom’s been speaking with a couple of them. One in particular captures a lot of Elle’s conversational, approachable style. I think you might like her.”

Elle.

It’s been a hellish week so far, and despite the fact that I haven’t taken my mind off that woman since I left her in my bed Monday morning, I’ve yet to reach out to her.

It isn’t that I haven’t thought about it a hundred times.

It’s just that there’s no need to rush any of this.

And there’s nothing more repellent than a man coming on too strong.

“Thank you, Miranda. Send the writing samples my way, and I’ll give them a look,” I say before ending the call and heading to the foyer. Any minute now, Elle will be ringing the doorbell to take Scarlett to some art exhibit in Tribeca, and I’d be remiss to waste an opportunity to see her, even in passing.

A minute later, I step off the elevator just in time to catch Elle trotting up the front steps, a floral sundress flouncing behind her as fresh curls bounce over her bare shoulders.

“Elle.” I get the door, showing her in.

She checks her watch. “A little early for you to be off work, isn’t it?”

It’s half past four, and she isn’t wrong.

“Taking a break,” I say. “I wanted to see you.”

Tucking her pointed chin, she says, “Really? Because my phone’s been pretty silent the last few days.”

“I’ve been absolutely swamped with this merger.”

She blows a puff of air through her cherry blossom lips. “Come on, West. You don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Make excuses.” She shrugs like this is no big deal, but the disappointment laced through her tone begs to differ. “It was just a hookup. We don’t have to make it into a whole thing.”

“What makes you think it was ‘just a hookup’?”

She lifts a hand before letting it clap against her side. “Oh gosh. I don’t know. You said all the right things and used all the right moves, and then I didn’t hear from you . . .”

“Right—because I’ve been swamped.” I emphasize each syllable in case she missed it the first time around.

I didn’t take Elle for the type to need extra reassurance, but obviously something’s gotten under her skin. Stepping toward her, I begin to say more until Scarlett steps off the elevator.

“You ready?” Elle changes her tune, perking up for my niece’s sake.

“Yep!” Scarlett flicks her hair over her shoulder before shooting me a quizzical look. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be working or something?”

Elle’s gaze drifts to mine, as if she has the same question.

“We should get going if we’re going to beat the crowd,” Elle says before I have a chance to answer.

Just like that, the conversation is over.

But only for now.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

ELLE

“So now no one wants to talk to Piper.” Scarlett is filling me in on the latest high school drama on the way home from the exhibit. “And one of her old friends invited me to hang out this weekend. Can you believe that?”

“Crazy,” I say, half listening. I can’t stop thinking about West—particularly his propensity for being hot, cold, or confusingly lukewarm at his convenience. I’d have expected a true one-night stand to seduce me and go radio silent. Our situation is different. Or so I thought.

“Maybe you could put in a good word for me with Uncle West?” she asks.

For the last two days, my thoughts have been a dizzying roller coaster of emotion. One minute I’m analyzing my night with West, and the next minute I’m convincing myself I had it all wrong, that I misinterpreted all the kind things he said, the tenderness in his touch, and the unapologetic hunger in his kiss.