“No, you won’t. Because you’re fired.”
I still and meet my father’s gaze, a sad smile playing at my lips. “Ha. Ha. Very funny.”
“I’m not joking. You’re fired. You have until the end of the day to clear out your desk, and I’ll give you six weeks of severance.”
“Are you kidding?” My heart rate accelerates. He can’t be serious. “I went to law school so I could do this. So that I could be the best fit for you here.”
He pushes to stand, dusting his hands off like he’s done some great work here. “Yup. And now you’re going to go find something to do that is the best fit for you. You’re going to stop worrying about what everyone else thinks of you or wants from you. And you’re going to waltz out in the world and be selfish for once. Take what you want and stop feeling guilty about it. Take it from me, guilt will eat you alive.”
He knocks his fist on my desk and strides out of my office, tossing out, “Gotta get to my meeting,” over his shoulder.
So casual, like he didn’t just blow up my entire life to teach me some sort of tough-love lesson.
I stare at myself in the mirror, dabbing at my eyes and willing away the splotchy redness on my neck and chest. My heart is pounding so hard I can see the skin in my throat jumping every time it pumps.
It’s comforting and distracting. I’m alive, but am I really living? Or have I just been scuttling along, putting everyone else first?
I press my palm to my chest, just above the scar there to feel the organ pumping.
Did I chase off the one man other than my father who put me first? Was he out of line? Or was I so tuned out from what I want that I missed the part where we fell in love? Did I dismiss him when that’s what he was trying to tell me?
We spent weeks together. Traveling. Working out. Eating. He gave me his last chicken wing and let me warm my feet on him without complaint.
They weren’t loud proclamations. But they were still there. And I missed them, while ignoring what I was feeling.
I shake my head and comb my fingers through my hair, smoothing my hands down the pretty maroon pencil skirt I’m wearing. All I have for clothes is what I retrieved from my hotel room and what I left at my dad’s house in the city. All my favorite pieces are still out at Wishing Well Ranch, along with a good chunk of my favorite people.
With a deep centering breath, I turn and leave the washroom, striding down to my office on sky-high heels, refusing to walk around this place like I’ve just been fired. I hold my chin high and put my game face on, letting my hips sway.
I make this stupid hallway my runway.
Until I glance into the boardroom and see Rhett Eaton sitting in the same chair I met him in two months ago.
My steps falter and I stop to stare at him. He’s leaned back in his chair, one booted foot casually slung across his knee.
He’s devastating with his rugged lines, wild hair, and honeyed eyes. Far too masculine to be sitting in such a polished space. He overwhelms it.
He overwhelms me.
My throat aches just looking at him. And when his eyes slide over to meet mine through the glass, my chest feels like it’s cracking right open.
I remember too keenly the sight of him moving above me, the appreciation in his gaze when I modeled my chaps for him, the way he kissed me so tenderly in a room full of people.
I also remember him calling what we did “sleeping together for a couple weeks.” Rob said something similar to me when he broke things off with me to be with my sister, that we were just sleeping together so it shouldn’t matter. It stung then, but it was excruciating this time around.
But I think what hurt the most was the way he brushed off my concern for him. That he made me feel like some overbearing crazy person for caring about him.
And that’s enough to spur me into action. I turn my head and carry on down the hallway, resisting the urge to run and forcing myself to appear calm and collected.
I do not feel calm and collected. But I would rather fucking die than let Rhett see how deeply he wounded me.
“Summer!” He shoves the door open just as I pass. A whiff of his scent chases me like a haunting memory. “I want to talk to you.”
“I’m good, thanks,” I say without turning back to him.
“Please. Just five minutes.” The pleading note in his voice almost makes me stop.
Almost.
“I think you’ve said enough, don’t you?” I check my watch, wondering how soon I can get the hell out of here, and then I remember I don’t work here anymore, so it doesn’t matter.