Trashy Foreplay (Trashy Affair #1) Page 6

  And I can’t do this anymore. The realization knocks me sideways, and I crumple to my makeshift bed, sitting cross-legged on the air mattress. Yesterday morning, I felt as if my life were over. But now…

  Now, I have some clarity. A promise of a fresh start, no matter how scared I might be to venture down that uncertain, exciting path.

  “Jules?”

  “So talk,” I say.

  “Look, can we not do this over the phone? Where are you, anyway? I heard you quit your job.”

  I bite back a scoff. More like forced into resignation, but whatever. People will spin it however they want, and that only reminds me of my reasons for leaving. “I’m not there,” I say.

  “Well, no shit, Jules. I’ve been here waiting for over an hour, and you weren’t answering my calls, so I was about to go looking for you. Can you just come home so we can deal with this shit?”

  I count to five, willing my voice to remain calm and collected because his attitude is digging under my skin. “I mean, I’m not in Oklahoma.”

  The silence on his end is deafening, but I hold off prodding him for a response. Part of me expects the eruption. Prepares for it, even.

  “What the hell?” he shouts. “What do you mean, you’re not in Oklahoma? Where the fuck are you then?”

  I’m tempted to ask how he could miss the empty closet and dresser, not to mention the disarray I left in my wake, but I guess he’s not as observant as I am. He probably didn’t even miss my fucking toothbrush. “I’m in Seattle.”

  “Damn it, Jules. Now’s not the time for you to go on vacation, especially to visit that bitch. She’ll just fill your head with poison.”

  “Actually,” I begin, brimming with anger over what he just said about Lesley, “she’s letting me stay with her and the band while I look for a job.” I leave it at that and wait for what I said to sink in.

  “Babe…no.” His voice evens out, and I recognize the tone all too well. It’s one he uses when he wants to get his way. “You gotta come home. Running away isn’t going to fix this. I love you. Please, Jules.”

  The desperation in his words tugs at my heart, making me tighten my hold around the phone. The part of me that still loves him is whittling away at my resolve. It would be so easy to go home, to fall back into habits as comfortable as an old pair of shoes. Safe shoes. The kind without spiky heels that have the potential to trip me up.

  I wouldn’t have to worry about disappointing my family any more than I already have. Wouldn’t have to worry about selling the car I left behind, or hiring someone to clean up the mess I left in the apartment.

  And things would be okay for a while. Chris and I would be the best versions of ourselves until our wants and needs take us in separate directions. Then the screaming would start. The mistrust and mistakes. Our love has become as poisonous as a belladonna; a blooming beauty that has the power to kill the soul with one little taste.

  “We’re toxic together,” I say, my throat thick with sorrow and hurt and regret. So much regret. “All we do is hurt each other. I can’t do it anymore.”

  “Are you doing this because of the marriage thing?”

  I’d laugh if I wasn’t so emotionally battered. For three years, I waited for him to put a ring on it. Now it’s clear to me that he never intended to.

  “No, Chris. I just…I think this is for the best. For both of us.”

  “Don’t do this to us.” God, he sounds desperate. “Stop and think about it first.”

  Oh, the fucking irony. I said something similar to him before he walked out on me.

  “I have. I was a wreck yesterday. I thought of nothing else, Chris.”

  His heavy sigh drifts through the line. “I’ve made mistakes too, babe. I was way too hard on you. I realize that now. Can you just come home so we can talk about this?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then I’ll come to you.”

  “No, you won’t.” Chris flying halfway across the country to “fix” us is inconceivable. He loves me, but not enough. He said it himself, and I actually believe it now. Heartbreak bands around my chest, a life-sucking reminder of the agony of yesterday. “I’ve gotta go. The apartment is paid for through the next thirty days, so if you need a place to stay—”

  “Get your ass on a plane, Jules. This isn’t funny.”

  “Do I sound like I’m laughing? You ripped my heart out.” A long and heavy beat passes, during which I fight for composure. “Maybe you did us both a favor.”

  “I can’t believe this.” The knife’s edge of his words blasts my ear, making me wince. “You fucking cheat on me, slutting around with your boss, of all people, and I’m the one begging you to come back?”

  And there it is. The side of Chris I tried ignoring all these years. The exhausting game of emotional ping-pong. The never-ending guilt trips. The blame, and always…always on me.

  “No, Chris. You’re the one who packed up and left without giving me a chance to apologize, let alone explain.” Before he drags me into a battle of wills neither of us will win, I end the call with a jab of my finger to his smiling face on my cell. Thirty seconds later, he calls back. Shit is going to hit the fan, and it’ll reek all the way here from Oklahoma, because I know the next call will be from my mom.

  Sending Chris to voicemail, I let out a long sigh before pulling her up in my contacts list. Better to go on the offensive when it comes to my mother.

  8. The Interview - Jules

  Finding a job is tougher than I thought it would be. Sure, the opportunities are plentiful, but there’s also more competition. For the past three weeks, during every job application and interview, Mom’s scathing disapproval followed me around like a destructive shadow. She laid into me over the phone the morning I called her and told her where I was.

  Seattle? Seriously, Julia?

  Do you really think you’ll make it on your own, halfway across the country? You don’t know how to be alone. When have you ever been alone a day in your life?

  Running away is cowardly. It’s beneath you. Chris dumping you was the best thing that could have happened, as was getting fired from that retched job. That boy did you a favor, so stop acting like a child and come home.

  No doubt, she thought her sharp words would be enough to get me on a plane back to Oklahoma, but truth be told, my first phone call home only drove me to succeed.

  No fucking way am I going back. If I have to take Les up on her offer and work in a coffee shop for a while, I will. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. The issue is my pride…and possibly my aversion to all things java. The main reason I’m determined to push forward is the voice in my head whispering that I have something to prove to the world.

  But mostly to myself.

  As I enter the atrium level at Mont Center, my heels tapping across the immaculate floor, I’m still in shock I was called up for an interview here. I submitted my resume on a whim, despite being ridiculously unqualified to work as an assistant for a CEO of such a well-known conglomerate. And don’t get me started on my lack of experience. I doubt The Powers That Be at MontBlake Holdings will appreciate the two years I worked for a small accounting firm in the midwest.

  And yet here I am, striding across the first floor of the elaborate atrium like I belong here. Like I have a shot in hell of landing this job, never mind my fear that Perry will bust any chances I have at working as an assistant again. He promised to give me a good recommendation, but no one’s hired me yet, so I’m skeptical.

  Jabbing the button for the elevator, I can’t help but gawk at my surroundings. A vaulted ceiling rises several stories high. The space overhead is monstrous and full of sharp angles. It’s an asymmetrical masterpiece. But I would expect nothing less, considering the company’s track record when it comes to the design of buildings and hotels.

  Patrons meander in and out of the various boutiques as the rich aroma of coffee wafts through the air, mingling with the fresh scent of plant life. My favorite part is the towering wall of
windowpanes where the sun beams through. A person could lose a whole day in this place, shopping, sipping tea, and reading a good book while curled up in one of the overstuffed chairs scattered throughout.

  As the doors to the elevator slide open, I can hardly believe I’m interviewing for a position as the CEO’s assistant. I’m sure I’ll exit the building in the next hour as jobless as when I entered, but at least I can say I tried, because I sure as hell don’t have the luxury of giving in to my insecurities now. My living situation feels more crowded every day. I have no idea how Les can handle living surrounded by guys all the time, but if I have one more bathroom incident with Garen, I’ll lose my shit.

  The guy seems to know exactly when I’m in there, and the fucking lock on the door doesn’t work. I wonder if he broke it just to have an excuse to walk in on me. Maybe it’s payback for my faux pas my first morning there.

  I don’t think so, though. Garen Ashmore has a voice as seductive as sin, and a body to match. The problem is he knows it, and ever since I moved in, he’s had his sights set on me. When he’s not too busy banging anything in a skirt, that is.

  The elevator dings on the thirty-eighth floor, and the doors part before me to reveal a sleek reception area. Floor-to-ceiling windows stand to my left, offering an up-close-and-personal view of downtown Seattle. I stride across spotless white marble and approach the young brunette behind the reception counter. A wall of slate tile stands behind her, providing a contrasting backdrop to the floor that seems too clean to set foot on.

  “Welcome to MontBlake,” she says with a welcoming smile. “How can I help you?”

  “I have an interview with Mr. Montgomery. I’m a little early.” Better to be early than late, is my motto.

  “You must be”—her manicured fingers dance over the computer keyboard—“Julia Harley?”

  “Yes, that’s me. But most people call me Jules.”

  Real smooth. For fuck’s sake, Jules. Calm the hell down.

  Her smile doesn’t slip. “Mr. Montgomery will be with you shortly, Jules. Feel free to take a seat.”

  I settle into a wingback chair and try not to twiddle my thumbs, or bite the nails off of them. Someone offers me something to drink, but my stomach is one giant knot, so I decline. While I wait, I people-watch. The reception area is a busy place, but all activity seems to stall when a woman with striking black hair steps off the elevator. Everyone in the vicinity takes notice as she crosses the room, the tap-tap-tap of her heels sounding off a purposeful echo. Luscious, curly locks cascade down her back, and her red power suit is obviously designed by someone important.

  This woman, whoever she is, doesn’t buy things off the rack.

  “Hello, Mrs. Montgomery,” the receptionist greets her with the same warm smile she graced me with.

  “My husband is interviewing today, yes?”

  “Yes, he is, Mrs. Montgomery.”

  “Clear some time on his schedule for me after his next interview,” she says quietly, her voice a melodious lilt.

  So this is the CEO’s wife.

  “Of course. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No, thank you, Beth.” Mrs. Montgomery boards the elevator, her head held high, and I can’t help but speculate on what kind of man it takes to land a woman like that. I’m guessing he’s older than she is, probably middle-aged at least. Undoubtedly handsome. Driven and successful. And loaded.

  Someone like her views wealth as a necessity. Even so, I don’t get the sense she’s a snob. If anything, she comes across as polite, despite being straightforward in her interaction with the receptionist. A phone rings, breaking through my assessment of Mrs. Montgomery. The call is short, and after Beth hangs up, she turns her attention to me.

  “Mr. Montgomery is ready for you now. His office is right through that door,” she says, pointing to the first door down the hall.

  I try not to let out a nervous breath as I rise to my feet. He might be ready for me, but am I ready for him?

  Don’t blow this, Jules. Fake it ’till you make it.

  I enter through a door that reads Cash Montgomery, CEO in etched gold, and my attention is drawn to the wall of tinted glass that looks out over the city and Elliot Bay. The windows wrap around an entire corner of the office. Jesus, the view is breathtaking. I have a hard time tearing my gaze away, but when I do I take in the man sitting behind the desk.

  He’s scribbling something on a pad of paper, his head dipped, and on some subconscious level I recognize his thick dark hair, because my heart thrashes against my ribcage.

  “Ms. Harley, thank you for…” Lifting his head, he trails off as our eyes connect, and the earth slams to a halt. Utter shock blankets his face. The time and space separating us seems to shrink, because I fall into the steel of his gaze as swiftly as I did the night I met him. The weeks melt away, and I’m back sitting beside him, 35,000 feet in the air, his hand covering mine.

  His breath on my lips. His fingers gripping my hair. The warmth of his goodbye kiss burning my cheek.

  Our time together on that plane crackles between us, paired with confusion and lust so strong it almost consumes the entire room.

  “Close the door,” he says, clearing his throat. “Please.”

  My hand shakes as I push the door shut. I turn to face him, and our isolation is a blast to my senses. We’re alone, blocked off from the bustle of people who have no idea of the magnitude of this moment. And my reaction to him is just as potent as it was three weeks ago. Possibly even stronger, as I’ve built him up in my mind since then. I fantasized about him every night as I drifted off to sleep, thought about him everywhere I went. Some irrational part of me even hoped fate would intervene, and I’d catch a glimpse of him. Just once.

  I’m practically in love with a fucking apparition of a memory, except the ghost of the man is very real, and he’s rising from behind the desk. My lips part at the first sight of his tall body encased in a suit he makes look good. In many cases, the suit makes the man, but not my stranger. His broad shoulders fill out the jacket perfectly, never mind the tailored fit of those slacks that hug his manhood.

  His hair is a little longer than I remember, and he brushes it back as that stormy gaze ping-pongs between me and his desk…where a wedding photo of him with the stunning brunette sits.

  As if to taunt me.

  Oh my God. She’s his wife.

  Clearing his throat, he gestures toward a chair. “Please, have a seat.”

  I’m not sure how my feet eat up the floor without making me stumble, but I manage to reach the chair without tattooing the word fool onto my forehead. I have a million and one questions ready to roll off my tongue, but I can’t find my voice.

  Weakness seizes my knees, and I grab the back of the chair, refusing to sit down just yet. Reclaiming his seat on the other side of the desk, he runs a hand through his hair. That’s when the sight of his wedding ring blasts me in the chest, and I manage to squeeze the single most important question past my constricted throat.

  “You’re married?”

  His wince is slight, but he can’t hide it. “If you’ll sit down, I’ll try to explain.” He’s eying me as if I might run from the building any second.

  I’m tempted to keep my feet planted where they are, but damn it, I need answers as much as I need a job. Even more disturbing is how I want to sit and drink in the sight of him for the next decade or so. I lower into the chair and scoot to the edge, as if preparing to take flight, and force my eyes on him. Direct eye contact is a must in this situation, because he holds too much power over me.

  If, by some twisted miracle, he does hire me, this is going to be a disaster of epic proportions, never mind the ratio of well to truly fucked.

  “I don’t understand, Mr…” I trail off, his surname catching in my throat. It seems so…impersonal. “I thought we…on the plane…you’re married?” I ask again, my voice rising to a high pitch. This man flusters me to no end, and I’m certain two pink spots are spreadi
ng across my cheeks.

  “It’s Cash,” he says with a meaningful glance that shoots warmth over my body. “My name is Cash.”

  There are other jobs out there—there has to be. Because I can’t do this. Not again, and certainly not with him. The pull I feel toward him is too strong.

  I jump to my feet, and my purse smacks the front of his desk, making that fucking wedding photo vibrate. “Thank you for your time, but I can’t do this. I’m sorry.” I scurry to the door until the command in his voice halts me.

  “Sit down, Jules.”

  A thrill travels down my spine, and a vision of him ordering me onto my knees flits through my mind. Where the fuck did that thought come from? I’m not even good at giving head—a shortcoming Chris never failed to point out. I gulp before turning around, knees shaking, and make my way back to the chair I just vacated.

  “I know it’s a cliché thing to say…” he begins, leaning forward, “but it’s not what you’re thinking.” His fingers form a steeple under his chin, and I wonder if he’s as rattled as I am. I can’t tell by looking at him, which makes me question what else he might be hiding. In fact, when I think back to our time in the air, I’m sure he’s a master manipulator.

  Because I had no fucking clue he was married. None. I knew he was involved with someone. But married? Fuck to the no.

  “You’re right. That is a total cliché. You’re gonna have to do better than that.”

  “My marriage is complicated, Jules.”

  Damn him for using my name again. Every time he does, the core of my sex pulses. The faster I get out of here, the better, and yet I can’t help but push back. “I imagine kissing strangers on planes would complicate a marriage.”

  “I didn’t kiss you.”

  “But you wanted to.” My accusation settles between us, heavy with the ring of truth.

  “Yes, I wanted to,” he admits, “and I would have if things were different.”

  “Meaning, if you didn’t have a wife waiting for you at home.” I feel like such a hypocrite, considering I cheated on Chris, but I can’t stop the rush of betrayal from flooding my system. It’s illogical, irrational, and it’s close to choking me.