The Little Black Dress (Love in Las Vegas)

39. The Beauty of Living

Sophie

Jared: I’m an idiot. I didn’t actually believe what I accused you of, but my demons got the better of me. I’m so sorry, Red. Forgive me. ––J

Jared stopped calling yesterday. After blowing up my phone the night before following that scene at his mother’s house. I didn’t answer, and he never responded to my emailed resignation. I deleted his voicemails without listening to them, but I just kind of assumed they were more accusations. Maybe demands to come get my shit from my desk.

So, when I got the text message this morning, I was a little shocked. An apology and a plea for forgiveness were the last things I expected, and I’m honestly not sure how I feel about them. I haven’t responded, and I’m not certain I will.

Because as much as the idea of forgiving Jared and going back to the way things were appeals to me, I can’t. I can’t forget the way he looked at me. The way he spat those hateful words, accusing me of climbing into his bed to get my hands on that damn painting. Like I would get close to him and fuck him on the orders of Stephen Hatfield.

I don’t know what his demons are, and I don’t want to know. I don’t want any part of it. Seriously. Don’t care.

I close my eyes and groan. Lying to myself has never worked in the past, and it’s not working now. Jared wouldn’t have the power to hurt me so badly if I didn’t care about him. I do care, and that’s why ignoring this text message all day has been so difficult.

I need a distraction. I already texted Ava and Zoey, but they’re both busy tonight. We made plans to go to dinner tomorrow night, but that leaves me at home now, all alone, wallowing in my misery on a Friday night.

My phone rings, and I pluck it from the coffee table in front of me. I don’t recognize the number, and I’m half-tempted to send it to voicemail. I live in an apartment––I don’t need solar panels. Or an extended car warranty.

But a little voice in my head urges me to answer. I can’t explain it, but I feel like this phone call is important. Sliding my thumb across the screen to accept the call, I lift the phone to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Sophie Jameson?” a female voice asks.

“This is Sophie,” I say.

“Hi, this is Waverly Brown.”

I fly upright, my back straight and my shoulders tense. “The Waverly Brown?”

A soft chuckle echoes through the speaker before she says, “I’m the only one I’m aware of, but I’m sure there are others out there. I’m calling about your application.”

My…Oh, shit. I completely forgot I put in an application to be Waverly Brown’s personal assistant before I got the job at The Black Hart. I never expected to hear back, and I certainly never expected the woman, herself to call me.

“Are you still interested in the position?” she asks when my whirling mind prevents me from speaking.

“Yes,” I shout, much too loud, then flinch. “Sorry. Yes. Yes, I’m interested.”

“Great. So, maybe we could meet for coffee next week? Feel each other out and see if we’re a good fit?”

“That sounds great,” I say, then my shoulders slump. “About my previous jobs…”

“I’ve already called your last two employers,” she says.

“You have?”

“Yes. I found your updated resume on one of the job-listing sites I’ve been using. Mr. Hatfield sounds like a real gem. He said you failed at a simple task he gave you––”

“He made me go to an auction to win a painting, and his approved budget got outbid,” I say quickly.

“Oh, I heard all about it,” she says with a husky chuckle. “It took me three seconds to realize that man’s opinion would have no bearing on my decision. He sounds like a real douche-waffle.”

A laugh bursts out of me at her colorful language, and I say, “I think I love you.”

“That’s great, because I think we’re going to be a great team. Jared Hart had nothing but glowing things to say about you. And when I asked why you left, he refused to give details other than it was his fault, not yours.”

“He…did?”