Accept Me (12 page)

“I’m not mad, Andy,” I admit. “I’m just—I don’t know what I am,” I grumble.

“Look, no pressure. We’ll just have dinner and leave it at that. I’m not trying to rush you, Jo.”

“Okay.”

It’s the only thing I can say right now. What am I supposed to say?
Andy, while I’m flattered that you’d go so far as to trick me into having dinner with you, and you’re definitely fuckworthy, you’ll never be enough because I’m still hopelessly in love with a man who doesn’t want me.
That response is most definitely not on my list of things to say. Ever.

Ordering food is a game of Russian roulette that I happen to do well at. I don’t know what the hell I’m ordering because the menu was in some sort of strange French-Vietnamese melded language (neither of which I speak nor read), so I picked at random. Turns out, I chose divinely, and being that it’s the first real food that I’ve had in two weeks, I savor every morsel.

“Gosh, that was good.” I sit up straight as a board in an attempt to ease my full belly.

Andy’s gaze drops to my breasts. His eyes drift back to mine and something unspoken lingers in the air. He wants more. He wants all of me. Any other red-blooded American female would take him up on his nonverbal offer. He’s tall and handsome. He’s rippled with muscles. He’s got a gorgeous smile and beautiful blue eyes. He has a job. He has a job. He even has a Labrador retriever, for God’s sake!

I wait a moment to see if the purely female part of me is inclined to reciprocate his silent offer, but nothing. Apparently, even the purely female part of me is still hung up on Damon.

“I’m going to go to the bathroom,” I say, suddenly anxious. “Be right back.” I slip from the table before he can even respond. I can feel him watching me as I nearly run to the ladies’ room.

I shut the bathroom stall door and latch it. I don’t really have to pee but I absolutely need a breather. With my palm pressed to the back of the door, I close my eyes and work at calming my nerves. This is bullshit. I can’t act like this every time a man who
isn’t
Damon Cole makes a pass at me. If this is what’s in store for me for the rest of my life, then I vow to never date again. This is misery personified and I’m about full up on that particular emotion.

After a brief reprieve, I smooth my dress and slide the lock on the stall door. I step out of my current nightmare and right into another.

Creamsicle Carrie is standing at the bathroom vanity smearing on a terrible shade of pink lipstick.

I step up to the sink and begin washing my hands. Creamsicle catches my glare in the mirror and about falls over. It’s a nice reaction that has me inwardly adjusting the scoreboard again.

“Carrie,” I greet curtly.

She does a decent job rebounding because she turns to face me with a limited smirk on her Botoxed face. “Heard about your bad news,” she says, feigning sympathy.

“I’m sure you did. Everyone knows.” I shrug, pretending that I’m not dying of a broken heart.

“Yeah, Damon told me all about it,” she adds and it feels like a blow to the gut.

Bitch!
I reach for the plush hand towels that are so nicely stacked for patrons and a visual enters my head that includes me wrapping this hand towel around her scrawny neck and twisting it like a bread tie until her stupid head pops off like one of those robot toys. It’s an appropriate comparison when you think of the plastic and/or artificial ingredients ratio. She has about the same amount of organic material left in her as the robot. Both completely manufactured. Fake boobs, fake tan, fake hair, fake nails, fake jewelry, fake designer clothes, fake teeth—her name is probably fake too!

The mental picture is a great method of distraction, because a slow smile eases across my face, exposing my own pearly whites. “Nice to see you, Carrie. Let’s do it again on the tenth of never,” I reply, tossing the towel her direction and walking right past her.

Her face contorts in an attempted show of displeasure and I take a second to enjoy it.

I’m making my way back to my table when I feel eyes on me; it can’t be Andy because he isn’t even in view yet. I stop in my tracks when I realize that the only other person who has ever made me
feel
their gaze is a certain tall, dark, and handsome man with a predisposition for breaking hearts.

I turn in place and lock eyes with him in all his screwed up glory. Instantly, a lump forms in my throat and even though my brain is screaming for me to run, I can’t. I’m maybe four feet from his table and caught up in his molten honey gaze.

“Hi,” is the only thing that comes out.

“Josephine,” he says just as curtly as ever. There isn’t a trace of emotion in his eyes and it’s like a knife to my heart.

I break our staring contest, looking over to the man he’s sitting with. “Hi, I’m Jo.”
And I’m stuck on stupid.

The bald man extends his hand to me and I take it. “Mike,” he says warmly. “Nice to meet you.”

Brian’s description of Mike Passarelli comes to mind and I make the connection.
Bruce Willis. Die Hard.
I must admit that Brian nailed that one. The description, not the man. This is Damon’s personal snoop, as Brian referred to him. I look down at their table and see something that taps the nail into the coffin.

There it is, like a big, fat middle finger. A wine glass with a lipstick stain in the shade of hideous.
Carrie.

I could kill him right on the spot. I could strangle him with my bare hands. How dare he? Carrie? Of all the bimbos traipsing around this town, he has to pick her to rebound with? My eyes linger on the stupid glass for a moment as I fume. I look back up at Damon and do my best to look unaffected but it’s no use. My inner heathen has won this one. Game, set, match. I lean forward, coming dangerously close to him. My lips are a hairsbreadth from his ear and I let loose.

“Fuck. You,” I whisper as if it was an offer rather than an insult, but Damon knows better. The syllables are fortified with pure venom concentrated by weeks of lonely nights and bleak days. I hope that it cuts him deep, but it likely won’t. I right myself, turn on my heels, and march right back to Andy with Damon’s penetrating stare burning holes through my back until I’m out of sight.

“Let’s go,” I demand like a criminal making a run for it.

“What?” Andy’s blue eyes are confused. Poor guy.

“I want to get out of here. Now.” I snag my purse from the back of my chair and sling it over my shoulder. He had better move or I’ll leave him here. I can’t stay in this place. Just breathing the same air as Damon right now is upsetting.

“Uh—all right. Is everything okay?” he asks nervously, tossing money on the table.

“Yep. Peachy. Damon is here.” I walk ahead of him out of Ga Tan and into the night air. I inhale deeply through my nose, allowing it to fill my lungs from top to bottom.

Andy stands beside me, watching dutifully and giving me a moment to shake off my unpleasant exchange with Carrie and Damon. Just thinking of her grubby fingers all over Damon makes me want to hurl and break something and claw out her eyes and kick him in the nuts then inhale a spread of comfort food like it’s a medicated balm to soothe my wounds.

We walk arm in arm back to the penthouse in silence. He doesn’t asked for details and I haven’t offered them.

Andy tugs my arm, bringing me to a stop on the sidewalk just before the penthouse. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he probes.

My head drops. My answer is simple and honest. “Damon and some orange-colored broad that has a way of crawling right under my skin.”

Andy’s hand goes to my chin, tilting my head up to look at him. Tears don’t threaten. I’m too tired to cry. I’m past crying and smack in the middle of general dismay.

“You are an incredibly beautiful, smart, driven woman who could have your pick of any man in this city. Don’t let one man ruin the rest of them for you.”

“Thank you, Andy,” I breathe. He’s right. I know he’s right, but it’s far easier said than done when said man happens to be the love of your life.

His attention drifts to my lips then back up to my eyes, asking permission. There isn’t any reason why I can’t or shouldn’t kiss him. He’s sweet and attractive and he likes me. He’s been a gentleman all night. If Damon can rebound already, so can I!
Just a kiss. No sex. No relationship. Just a kiss.
I chant over and over to myself like it’s my new mantra—
Just a kiss
.

Andy’s mouth lands on mine; he kisses me softly, coaxingly. I return the sensual kiss, hoping that it will stir something within me. A part of me hopes that kissing another man will rid me of some of my need for Damon. Andy’s fingers lace through my hair, pulling me closer, intensifying the kiss. His warm hands hold me immobile as he takes the breath from me. He takes and takes some more. He groans in appreciation then slips his tongue over the seam of my lips, gaining entrance to my mouth.

While he’s a great kisser, he isn’t Damon. A vision of a furious Damon bombards my thoughts and I break away from Andy. It’s so ridiculous, but I almost feel like I’m betraying Damon—like I’m cheating; like I’m giving away something that doesn’t belong to me, but to him.

“I’m sorry. I just—I can’t,” I mutter, wiping my lips with the back of my hand.

Andy squeezes his eyes shut and sighs in apparent disappointment and I can’t say I blame him. I’m disappointed too. I wish Damon didn’t dominate every part of me, but he does. At least for right now.

“I’m just going to go ahead and go to bed. Thank you for dinner,” I say cordially, fidgeting with my fingers in front of me, not knowing what else to do.

“Thank you for not taking off when you found out that I tricked you into coming.” Andy smiles sweetly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Want me to take you up?” He motions with his chin toward the penthouse behind me.

“Nah. I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Andy nods. “You know where to find me.” He turns his broad shoulders and walks away, leaving me alone.

I stand on the sidewalk feeling homeless again, physically and emotionally destitute. My home isn’t really my home, it’s Damon’s. And my heart isn’t really my heart. That’s property of Damon Cole too.

I walk past the abandoned security desk and take the elevator up. The moment I’m through the door I kick off my heels. One by one they skitter across the floor. I drop my purse strap on the banister of the stairs. The thin belt around my waist is next. I unbuckle it and pull it from the loops holding it in place. It drops to the stairs. Once I’m on the landing, I reach around and unzip my sheath dress, letting it slink to the floor. I’ve discarded everything haphazardly, needing desperately to sink into a hot bath. I can clean up my mess later, but right now soaking away my encounter with Damon takes precedence.

Water feels good on my face. I wipe away the makeup and examine my reflection in the guest bathroom mirror. I look pathetic. My eyes are tired. My shoulders slouch involuntarily. My muscles have softened with lack of use. I’m the poster girl for depression.

A loud crashing noise coming from downstairs has me standing still, listening closely for the culprit. It’s impossible to break into this place; it’s as secure as they come. I struggle to recall if I engaged the security alarm when I came through the door.
Fuck!

I scurry to the closet looking for something, anything, to arm myself with before I go downstairs. Even if there was a weapon in this closet I doubt I’d be able to find it beneath the clothes, shoes, and random junk that’s strung all over the place. Housework has been at the bottom of my priority list lately.

I don’t even have my cell phone since it’s at the bottom of the stairs in my purse. I go over my options in my head for a moment while I stand in the closet in just my bra and panties.

I know my best bet is to get my phone and call the security desk. If I call whoever is on duty tonight, they can come up and check things out for me or call the police on my behalf, whichever comes first.

I peek out from my hiding spot to make sure the coast is clear then tiptoe to the guest room door. I peer into the dark hall looking for the first sign of trouble. I don’t see anything, so I tiptoe down the hall to the landing at the top of the stairs.