Haden’s no better. For someone I work with, he has no problem practically groping Presley under the table. I’ve been with enough women to know that he’s either brushing his fingers against her clit or fingering her under the table. Either way, I need to leave.
My only problem—I shouldn’t have drunk so much because I’m too intoxicated to drive.
When Kate strolls over, I wrap my arms around her and tell her how beautiful she is.
“Okay,” she says plainly. “What do you want?”
“I need a ride,” I tell her, kissing the top of her hand.
She pulls it away. “Do I have ‘Uber’ written on my forehead?”
“No. You have ‘horny woman that needs to get laid by Zac Efron’ written on your forehead.”
She nods her head, agreeing. I manage to convince her. She’s also eager to leave the couples to get on with their business.
After making our way to the car, it’s late and the traffic is moving nicely down the freeway. Kate turns the radio up, playing some Katy Perry song. She hums along, distracted by her own thoughts until I startle her.
“Fuck!” I shout.
“What?” she responds, panicked, trying to look over.
“My cell died.”
She rolls her eyes, ignoring my first-world problem and driving up the windy street until we reach Scarlett’s home. For most of the ride, she tries to convince me not to go but also knows me well enough to drop the subject after I basically tell her to fuck off.
The security guard calls through and opens the gates, allowing me in. When we reach the top of the drive, Scarlett comes out with a concerned look on her face, eyeing our surroundings.
“Hey.” I smirk, stumbling out of the car.
“Didn’t you get my text? I also tried to call you,” she says in a high-pitched voice.
“My phone died…”
In the corner of my eye, behind the large tree, I see Morgan’s Mercedes. “Morgan’s here?”
I walk toward the house, ignoring Scarlett’s plea to stop. I don’t want Scarlett. And maybe this is a blessing in disguise. I have to apologize in person to Morgan and tell her I fucking love her.
Because I do.
She’s nowhere to be seen, so I move toward the patio where I see an outdoor fire lit and guests sitting on chairs. Scarlett calls my name in a panic, demanding to know what I’m doing. Then, I see her. Sitting on the chair, laughing with a wine in hand.
I step outside and the second she sees me her face drops. Pained and pleading for me to understand. She remains silent not saying my name. I’m confused, and I look behind me where Kate stands and Scarlett’s biting her nails.
“Noah,” Scarlett says, pulling my arm back.
There’s a man, roughly my height, wearing a knitted sweater and dark blue jeans. He has a bottle of beer in his hand, and next to him sits a boy about Amelia’s age with Max.
He stands up, extending his hand. “You must be Noah. Scarlett and Morgan have spoken quite fondly of your work.”
I should be flattered but my confusion only stems further. “Thank you. And you are?”
“I’m Wyatt, Morgan’s husband. And this is our son, Michael.”
The core of my insides stiffen, and the echo I hear is only that of my heart being torn into shreds. The muscles inside my neck strain to remain composed, my posture demanding I fall over at any moment. But throughout the pain that’s currently crippling my every move, I twist my head to meet Morgan’s eyes.
“Noah,” she pleads.
I rip my arm away from Scarlett’s grip, trying not to lash out in front of the kid. But my tongue is tied, no words or sounds can be spoken. I want to die. Throw myself into the pool and sink to the bottom. And then I remember her words. The ones that tore me apart more than I could have ever possibly imagined.