T-MINUS 30 DAYS.
Nothing said rock bottom more than crying over a girl less than eight hours after she’d left.
Fine. There were no tears involved. But I barely managed to drag myself out of bed in time to bitch at Natalie for arriving to work a minute early.
“But you always expect me to show up early.” She pouted, bouncing from heel to heel. “Last time I arrived on time, you docked my bonus.”
I arched a brow, pulling up my email account. “Are you wearing shoes in my home?”
“You always let people wear shoes in your business wing.”
I began typing out a draft, requesting Eileen’s presence for a lunch meeting at The Grand Regent, during which I fully intended to call our wedding off. Speaking of…
I turned to Natalie. “Where’s my lunch?”
Unshed tears rimmed her eyes. “But it’s not even ten.”
She surveyed the room, as if she expected to spot hidden cameras.
Me, too, Natalie. Me, too.
Maybe this is all one elaborate prank and Octi will waltz through the double doors, strut to the Go board, and make a move.
I pressed send on the email.
Now all I needed was to inform Mom that I:
One) had gone to the Hamptons as she wished.
Two) fucked up any possibility of a future with her bridal candidate by literally fucking Farrow during dinner with Eileen.
And three) expected her to honor her agreement to cancel the engagement.
I closed my eyes, spinning my chair around, so I didn’t have to look at the Go board.
Chill the fuck out, Zach.
It’s just thirty days.
You survived thirty-three years without Farrow.
But did I?
