Two months later
My résumé needed a makeover. After two hours online searching the help-wanted ads, I’d realized I was going to have to embellish my skills a bit.
The crappy temp job I’d finished today could spruce up my administrative experience. At least it would look good on paper. I called up my sad excuse for a résumé in Word and added my latest position as a legal assistant.
Worman and Associates. Now there’s a name that fits. David Worman, the attorney I’d just finished a thirty-day temp gig for, was indeed half worm, half man. After I typed in the dates and address, I sat back in my seat and thought about what I could list as experience gained working for that jackass.
Let’s see. I tapped my finger to my chin. What did I do for the worm man this week? Hmm . . . Yesterday, I’d removed his hand from my ass while threatening to file a complaint with the EEOC. Yes, that needed to be on there. I typed:
Adept at multitasking in a high-pressure environment.
On Tuesday, the worm had taught me how to backdate the postage-stamp machine so the IRS would think his late tax check was timely and wouldn’t charge him a penalty. Good stuff. That needed to be added, too.
Thrives within deadline-driven conditions.
Last week, he sent me to La Perla to pick up two gifts—something nice for his wife’s birthday, and something sexy for a “special friend.” I might have added a little something for myself on the jerk’s bill. Lord knows I couldn’t afford a thirty-eight-dollar thong these days.
Demonstrates superb work ethic and commitment to special projects.
After adding a few more bullshit, buzzword-phrased accomplishments, I sent my résumé off to a dozen new temp agencies and rewarded myself with a full-to-the-brim glass of wine.
What an exciting life I led. Twenty-seven and single in New York City on a Friday night, and I’m sporting sweats and a T-shirt at barely eight o’clock. But I had no desire to go out. No desire to sip sixteen-dollar martinis at fancy bars where men like Todd wore expensive suits to hide their inner wolf. So instead, I clicked on Facebook and decided to check out the lives everyone else had—at least the ones they put on display.
My newsfeed was full of typical Friday-night posts—happy-hour smiles, pictures of food, and the babies some of my friends were already starting to have. I scrolled mindlessly for a while as I sipped my wine . . . until I came to a photo that made my swiping finger freeze. Todd had shared a photo posted by someone else. It was of him and a woman arm in arm—a woman who looked a lot like me. She could’ve passed for my sister. Blonde hair, big blue eyes, fair skin, full lips, and the foolishly adoring look I’d once had for Todd as well. The way they were dressed, I thought perhaps they were going to a wedding. Then I read the caption underneath:
Todd Roth and Madeline Elgin announce their engagement.
Their engagement?
Seventy-seven days ago—not that I was counting—our engagement had ended. And he’d already proposed to someone else? For fuck’s sake, she wasn’t even the woman I’d caught him cheating on me with.
It had to be a mistake. My hand shook with anger as I moved the mouse around and clicked to Todd’s home page. But, of course, it wasn’t a mistake. There were dozens of congratulatory notes—and he’d even responded to a few. He’d also posted a picture of their joined hands, showcasing the engagement ring on her finger. My. Damn. Engagement. Ring. My classy ex hadn’t bothered to have the setting changed after I threw it in his face while he was still zipping up his pants. There was no way he’d changed the mattress we’d slept on for two years before I moved out. In fact, Madeline was probably already a buyer at the Roth chain of department stores—sitting at my old desk, doing the job I’d quit so I wouldn’t have to look at his cheating face every day.
I felt . . . I wasn’t sure what I felt. Sick. Defeated. Aggravated. Replaceable.
Oddly, I didn’t feel jealous that the man I’d thought I loved had moved on. It just really hurt to be so easily substituted. It confirmed that what we’d had wasn’t special at all. After I’d broken things off, he’d vowed to win me back—told me I was the love of his life and that nothing would stop him from proving we were meant to be together. The flowers and gifts had stopped after two weeks. The calls had stopped after three. Now I knew why—he’d found the love of his life, again.
Shocking even myself, I didn’t cry. I just felt sad. Really sad. Along with my life, my apartment, my job, and my dignity, Todd had robbed me of the ideal I’d always believed in—true love.
I leaned back in my chair and shut my eyes, taking a few deep, cleansing breaths. Then I decided I wasn’t going to take this news lying down. This is crap! I had no choice but to take action. So I did what any scorned girl from Brooklyn would do after discovering her ex-fiancé didn’t wait for the bed to cool before bringing home another woman.
Finish off the bottle of wine.
Yep. I was drunk.
Even if my speech hadn’t been slurred, the fact that I was sitting in a feathered wedding gown with the zipper wide-open at the back, while slugging directly from a wine bottle, might have been a dead giveaway. I tilted my head back in a very unladylike manner and emptied the last drops before slamming the bottle down on the table. My laptop jolted, causing it to spring to life from sleep mode. The happy couple greeted me.
“He’s going to do the same thing to you.” I wagged my finger at the screen. “You know why? Because once a cheater, always a cheater.”
The damn feathers on the gown tickled my leg again. It had happened a dozen times over the last hour, yet each and every time, I swore it was a bug crawling up my leg. When I reached down to swat again, my hand brushed against something, and I realized what it was. The blue note.
Lifting the hem, I pulled the inside of the dress up and read the note again.
To Allison—
“She said, ‘Forgive me for being a dreamer,’ and he took her by the hand and replied, ‘Forgive me for not being here sooner to dream with you.’”—J. Iron Word
Thank you for making all of my dreams come true.
Your love,
Reed
My heart let out a yearning sigh. So beautiful. So romantic. What had happened to these two that this special dress had wound up on some drunken girl instead of being cherished and passed down to their daughters? It was a long shot, but I couldn’t stand to look at Todd’s face anymore anyway. So I typed into Facebook: Reed Eastwood.
Imagine my surprise when two popped up in New York. The first guy was probably midsixties. Although the dress was a little sexy for a bride his age, I stalked to be sure anyway. Reed Eastwood had a wife named Madge and a golden retriever named Clint. He also had three daughters and cried while walking one down the aisle last year.
Even though part of me really wanted to stalk Reed’s daughter’s wedding photos to torture myself a little more, I moved on to the next Reed Eastwood.
My pulse jolted me back to sobriety when his profile picture popped up on the screen. This Reed Eastwood was drop-dead gorgeous. In fact, he was so incredibly handsome that I thought it could possibly be a model’s photo someone had used as a joke or to catfish. But when I clicked into the photos, there were others of the same man. Each more gorgeous than the last. He didn’t have too many, but the last one I clicked on was of him and a woman, taken a few years back. It was an engagement photo—Reed Eastwood and Allison Baker.
I’d found the author of the blue note and his love.
My cell phone was dancing like a Mexican jumping bean on the nightstand. I reached over and grabbed it just as it went to voice mail. Eleven thirty. Damn, I’d really been out. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was drier than the desert. I needed a tall glass of water, Motrin, a bathroom, and the bedroom blinds drawn to block the god-awful, glaring sun.
Dragging my hungover butt to the kitchen, I forced myself to rehydrate, even though drinking made me queasy. There was a distinct possibility the water and pills were going to travel in the opposite direction in the near future. I needed to lie down. On my way back to the bedroom, I passed my laptop on the kitchen table. It was a painful reminder of the fuzzy night before—of why I’d finished a bottle of wine alone.
Todd is engaged.
I was pissed at him because I felt like crap today. And even more pissed at myself that I’d allowed him to ruin yet another day of my life.
Ugh.
My memory was hazy, but the picture of the happy couple was, of course, clear as day. A sudden panic came over me—God, I hope I didn’t do anything stupid that I don’t remember. I tried to ignore the thought, even made it back to my bedroom door, but I knew I’d never be able to rest with the unsettled feeling I had. Returning to the table, I woke up my laptop and went directly to my messages. I breathed a sigh of relief finding I hadn’t messaged Todd and then crawled back to my bed.
It was early afternoon before I finally started to feel human and took a shower. When I was done, I pulled my cell from the charger and sat on my bed with my hair wrapped in a towel, going through my texts. I’d forgotten my phone had woken me up earlier until I saw I had a new voice mail. Probably another temp agency that wanted to waste a day interviewing me when they didn’t have a job to offer. I hit “Play” and grabbed my brush to comb out my hair as I listened.
“Hello, Ms. Darling. This is Rebecca Shelton from Eastwood Properties. I’m calling in response to your request to view the penthouse at Millennium Tower. We have a showing today at four. Mr. Eastwood will be on-site if you would like to tour the space after, perhaps around five this evening? Please give us a call to confirm if this works with your schedule. Our number here is . . .”
I didn’t catch the telephone number she’d left since I’d dropped the phone on the bed. Oh God. I’d completely forgotten that I’d stalked the blue-note guy. Bits and pieces rolled back in through the fog. That face. That gorgeous face. How could I have forgotten that? I remembered clicking through his pictures . . . , then his bio . . . , which led me to a website for Eastwood Properties. But then I couldn’t remember a damn thing.
Grabbing my laptop, I searched my history and called up the last website I’d visited.
Eastwood Properties is one of the largest independent brokerage firms in the world. We connect the most prestigious and exclusive properties with qualified buyers, assuring the utmost privacy for both parties. Whether you’re in the market for a luxury New York City penthouse with a view of the park, a waterfront Hampton estate, or an enchanting chateau escape in the mountains, or you’re ready for your own private island, Eastwood is where your dreams begin.
There was a link to search properties, so I typed in the name of the place the woman had mentioned in the voice mail: Millennium Tower. Sure enough, the penthouse popped up for sale. For only $12 million, I could own an apartment on Columbus Avenue with sweeping views of Central Park. Let me write you a check.
After drooling through a video and two dozen photos, I clicked on the button to make an appointment to view the property. An application popped up, the top of which read: For the privacy and safety of our sellers, all prospective buyers are required to complete an application to view properties. Only buyers that meet our stringent prequalification criteria will be contacted.
I snorted. Great prequalification criteria you have there, Eastwood. I wasn’t sure I had enough money to take the train uptown to get to that swanky place, much less buy it. God knows what I’d written that had qualified me.
I closed the website and was just about to shut my laptop and go back to bed again when I decided to take one more peek at Mr. Romantic on Facebook.
God, he was gorgeous.
I shouldn’t.
No good ever came out of ideas formulated while drunk.
I couldn’t.
But . . .
That face . . .
And that note.
So romantic. So beautiful.
Plus . . . I’d never seen the inside of a twelve-million-dollar penthouse.
I really shouldn’t.
Then again . . . I’d spent the last two years doing everything I should do. And where had that gotten me?
Right here. It’d gotten me right damn here—hungover and unemployed, sitting in this crappy apartment. Maybe it was time I did the things I shouldn’t be doing for a change. I picked up my phone and let my finger hover over the “Call Back” button for a while.
Screw it.
No one would ever know. It could be fun—getting all dressed up and playing the part of a rich Upper West Sider while satisfying my curiosity about the man. What harm was there?
None that I could think of. Still, you know what they say about curiosity . . .
I pressed “Call Back.”
“Hi. This is Charlotte Darling calling to confirm an appointment with Reed Eastwood . . .”
