“Lakeview Rehab Center. How can I help you?”
“Quick, what’s your mom’s name?” she whispered to Ford.
“Catherine. Catherine Matthews,” he said, clearly clueless as to what she was planning to do.
Corrie nodded once, then brought the mouthpiece to her lips. “Hi, I’m calling about the payment for Catherine Matthews.”
“What are you doing?” Ford whispered.
“Our accounts and billing department won’t be open until eight a.m., but I’d be happy to see if I can help you,” the voice on the other end said.
“Well, I’m in a remote location overseas and might not be able to call when they are open. Is there any chance you can accept a payment now over the phone?” Corrie responded.
“What?! Corrie, no. You can’t—” Ford said, trying to take the phone from her. But Corrie swatted him, and his hard sweaty body, away.
“Sure thing. I’ve got Mrs. Matthews’s account right here,” the receptionist said.
“Great!” Corrie said, moving away from Ford so he couldn’t grab the phone. “I’m ready with the credit card number whenever you are.”
“Ready.”
“Okay, it’s—”
Ford snatched the phone from her grasp. “I can’t let you do that.”
“Give me the phone.” She reached around him, their bodies grazing against each other, sending a satisfying zap to her senses.
“No. It’s thirty thousand dollars, Corrie.”
“And you can pay me back as soon as you get paid. Now hand me the phone, Ford. I’m doing this whether you want me to or not.”
She held out her hand as he searched her face, debating his options. As if he really had any. His shoulders finally relaxed with a resigned sigh. But after reluctantly letting go, Corrie proceeded to give her credit card info to the receptionist then wrapped up the call before finally handing the phone to Ford.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome.”
They stood silently for a moment, Ford running his thumb back and forth over the phone.
“Why are you being so kind to me? You shouldn’t even want to speak to me right now.”
She sighed. Wasn’t that the truth? But she couldn’t deny that pain in her heart.
“Ford . . . I hate what you did. Like close my eyes and picture your face on a dartboard hate it. But . . .” She paused. “But I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same if I’d been in your position.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“You don’t? Even taking out the mom component, you don’t think I would have taken the chance to get back at you for stealing my opportunity with Addison? You don’t think I would have thrown you under the bus to take this from you?”
“No, I don’t.”
Corrie had to admit, she was a little insulted at his disbelief in her ruthlessness.
“That’s because,” he continued, “under all this fire and attitude, I know you have too much pride not to earn your spot based on your merit. That’s why you care so much about what people think of you. You’d never throw someone else under the bus to get what you wanted. Not even me. It’s not your style. You have too much class for that.”
He was probably right. Sure, she’d fantasized many times about the ways she could get back at him, then and now. But revenge would only highlight her own weaknesses, and her satisfaction would be short-lived. Because how could she feel good about getting ahead if the only reason it happened was because of someone else’s failure instead of her own success?
Besides, she’d been wrong about the whole Addison thing anyway.
“Fine,” she said, letting her arms fall to her side, palms facing forward. “I did it because, after everything, I still care about you. I hate how much I wish you’d never told me about it. How I wish you’d kept this from me so that I could love you with blissful ignorance. How messed up is that, Ford? That I’m madder at myself for wishing you’d never told me than the fact that you screwed me over in the first place?”
He didn’t answer, but his pained eyes said he understood.
“We’re still going our separate ways after this and never have to see each other again,” she continued. “But that doesn’t make the other feelings go away. And I feel like a fool for even saying that. Like I’m some silly girl with a crush on a guy who doesn’t care about her at all but would still do anything for him. But I can’t watch you worry about her, and I can’t let her suffer just because I feel foolish.”
“Corrie.” He said her name breathlessly. “I never said that I didn’t care about you. I care about you so, so much. So much it makes me feel like I’m choosing between the only two people in this entire world that I truly care about, except that the damage occurred before there was any other option.
“You say you hate what I did, but I guarantee I hate it even more. Hate it because I hurt you. Hate it because it will hurt my mother, knowing how I got the money. Hate it because I became the one thing I promised myself I’d never be—my father. But I hate that it’s planted this seed of self-doubt in you. Socorro Mejía, you are anything but a fool. I’m the fool for letting you slip through my fingers.”
His face strained, as if it pained him to speak those words. She chewed on her bottom lip, trying to force herself not to cry. Hopeless love. That was what this was.
“Will you hold me?” she asked.
His eyes were full of pain and uncertainty. “I’m completely sticky and gross.”
“I don’t care. Even you sticky and gross is better than the emptiness that I’m feeling at the thought of saying goodbye to you in a few days.” Her voice quivered. Tough chicas didn’t cry.
Maybe she wasn’t so tough after all.
He pulled her in toward his body and, yep, she was right. Even with the humidity and the sweat, it still felt better to be in his arms than not.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair. “If I could take it all back, rewind all the way to that night in the library, I would. I’d go back and kiss you and maybe . . . maybe we would have had a chance.”
She squeezed her eyes tight and buried her face in his chest, as if she could will the tears away. If only time worked that way.
She lifted her head and stared at him looking at her. Like that first night in the library—well, aside from the whole half-naked thing—but the look. That questioning in his eyes.
Should I kiss her? they asked.
She lifted herself on her toes and answered him by placing her lips on his. He took her in, holding her tighter in his arms as their tongues glided together. Much like their wet bodies. She needed his kiss, needed it once more before she never saw him again. Needed to implant the memory of his touch in her head so she could judge future relationships against this feeling. Because if she didn’t feel this, it wasn’t worth it.
But he pulled away and let go of her body, and the feeling of emptiness returned.
“Stop, stop. We can’t,” he said, backing up toward the bed. “We’re making it harder for ourselves.”