“I didn’t even know he owned a T-shirt,” Hunter mumbles.
“Are those…sneakers?” Garrett asks.
“Leave him alone, guys,” I say. “He clearly didn’t want to get his Armani dirty.”
He pauses at the door with a scowl. “Ha ha. Very funny.”
Our laughter is suddenly cut short by an unexpected guest following Emerson through the front door. Looking hesitant and disgruntled, Beau stands in the entryway of my new house, giving us an awkward wave.
“I figured we could use some help,” Emerson says, gesturing to his son.
“And someone under thirty,” Garrett adds.
I’m standing here speechless because it must be at least five years since I’ve seen Emerson’s son, and I certainly don’t remember him looking like this. Broad shoulders, thick arms, and golden tan skin.
The room is swallowed up in tension when I realize I should probably be the one to say something.
“Of course!” I stammer. “Thanks for coming, Beau.”
“You’re welcome,” he mutters uncomfortably.
“I haven’t seen you in years. I hardly recognized you,” I reply, and he gives me a tense smile. I sound so old, hearing myself say that, but it’s true. I remember Beau as a bratty seventeen-year-old, not a full-grown man.
When I notice Emerson looking around, I tense, praying that he doesn’t notice the scuffed floorboards and dripping faucet. Not that I bought this million-dollar home to impress him, but I do feel the self-inflicted scorn of having a house not quite as nice as his. Especially when we carry the same job title and take home the same salary.
I almost wish he would sneer at the little details that only I notice. But, of course, he doesn’t. Instead, he smiles, approaching me with arms wide, and presses a friendly kiss to my cheek. “The house is beautiful, Maggie. Congratulations.”
It’s hard enough to compete with Mr. Perfect himself when he’s rich and smart and in control and basically has the world kneeling at his feet without effort. The real cherry on the sundae is the fact that Emerson Grant has never treated me poorly in all of our time working together. But maybe that’s why it hurts so much that he doesn’t see—or rather, acknowledge—how unbalanced the dynamic is between us.
We run different races to cross the same finish line.
“Thanks, Emerson,” I mumble with a smile as he pulls away.
Outside a loud horn honks twice, which means Drake is out there parking a truck holding everything I own.
“He’s here,” Hunter announces, leading the pack out the front door.
Emerson lingers with me for a moment, studying my face with concern. “Everything all right?”
I fake a smile and nod.
But inside I’m thinking, no. Everything is not all right. I just bought a house I don’t need that’s going to require a lot of work I definitely don’t want, and I did all of this to prove that I’m just as successful as him when, deep down, I’m probably using this house to cover up something that I haven’t had enough therapy to identify yet.
And to top it all off, I haven’t been properly laid in almost two years, and I’ve given up on dating altogether because, no matter where I look, the only men interested in me are boring, middle-aged divorcees with giant egos and tiny penises.
I’m not afraid of spending my life alone. I actually like being alone, but I’m tired of being unfulfilled and I’m terrified the best years of my life are behind me, and unlike being a sexy rich man in his forties, I’m a thirty-four-year-old workaholic woman that never gets to play the starring role in anyone’s fantasy.