Once his fingers curl around the hem of my dress, I have no choice. There’s no way I’m getting out of here by asking nicely.
Screw him. Richard doesn’t deserve nice from me, ever again.
I lean into his body, steadying myself for maximum impact. And then I swing my knee up into his groin.
This time, he doesn’t anticipate my movement and I watch as his face distorts in shock, then pain. Richard’s hoarse, guttural groan echoes inside the bathroom as he crumples to the ground, clutching his balls.
“Bitch,” he spits out, glaring at me through eyes glittering with malice.
“Dick.” I don’t even attempt to hide my grin. God, that felt good. “Consider that a belated thank you. Your email was the best thing that could have happened to me.”
Chapter 47
Lance
Tripp finds me on the top deck. “You planning on sulking up here until we get back to the dock?”
He extends one of the glasses in his hands in my direction, and I take a bracing sip. Scotch. “I’m not sulking.”
“What would you call it then?”
“Thinking.”
“About Vivienne?”
“No. The theory of relativity,” I deadpan.
He shrugs and settles his elbows on the railing beside me. “Einstein’s theory of space and time. I guess that makes sense. As things stand now, you and Vivienne don’t have much time left to share the same space.”
I grunt. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Okay. How about this—grow a set of fucking balls and be the goddamn gravity that keeps her with you.”
If Tripp was anyone else, he’d be overboard right now. But I merely squint at the horizon, at the fine line delineating sea and sky. It looks so close, like I could swim there. But it’s just a trick. No matter how far I swim, the horizon will always be just out of reach. Unattainable.
“I’m just a job to Vivienne. Whatever I thought we were, I was wrong.”
If I’m expecting sympathy, I don’t get it. Tripp laughs. “You might be an even bigger dipshit than I was with Jolie.” He thinks for a minute. “Actually, no. I still have you beat on that one.”
“Great.” I swallow the rest of my scotch, relishing the burn. “Good talk.”
“How many times a day are you told things that aren’t true? Not lies. Just inaccuracies?”
I don’t have to think for long. Human error exists in every aspect of life, from the weatherman predicting sun before a rain storm to my engineers accidentally leaving a loophole in their code. “All the time. Why?”
“What do you do about it?”
“If it’s important, I fix it. If not, it’s someone else’s problem.” I stand up. “What’s all this about?”
“You, man. Why are you taking Vivienne at her word when you know damn well she’s wrong?”
“Because when someone tells you who they are, you should believe them.”
“You quoting Maya Angelou now?” He looks across the deck, settling once his eyes land on Jolie. “Let me ask you this—setting aside anything she’s said—does Vivienne treat you like a job? Like you’re nothing but a paycheck?”
Again, my answer comes instantly. “No.”
“Then don’t treat her like a goddamn employee. You’re not going to find another one like her.”
He’s right, I know. But when I go to find Vivienne, I see her walk into the bathroom . . . followed almost immediately by Dick.
Immediately, a haze clouds my vision, my blood pressure pounding in my ears and making me so off balance I have to grab hold of a nearby brass railing for support. I don’t even have a chance to pound on the door and strangle the man before Vivienne comes out.
There’s a flush on her face and a smile on her mouth, her dress noticeably askew.
And that’s when I know. I could snap Dick’s neck and it wouldn’t matter. Vivienne isn’t mine.
And she never will be.
Chapter 48
Lance
THE DAY BEFORE LABOR DAY
I’m in my office when Vivienne raps her knuckles on the doorjamb. “Are you busy?”
Yes. Busy waiting for her to tell me what she was doing with her ex on the yacht last night. There has to be an answer, a reason. Something to make what I saw with my own eyes actually make sense.
I close out of the project I’ve been working on for the last couple of hours and gesture at the chairs positioned in front of my desk.
“I have time. Take a seat.”
Vivienne is wearing cut-off jean shorts and a sheer white tank over a bikini top. Her hair is swept into a braid that falls over her shoulder, the tied end resting on the rise of her breast, sunglasses perched on top of her head. When she sits down, the shorts become even shorter, her long, lean legs crossed at the knee, one calf swinging, her feet bare.
We spent most of last night on opposite ends of the boat, and once we arrived home, I mumbled something about having work to do and locked myself in my office.
In the early hours of the morning I found myself drawn to the couch in the living room, where I watched the light of dawn gradually illuminate the canvas hanging over the fireplace. The piece of art Vivienne and I made together, streaks of paint from our hands covering the surface, the outline of her hourglass figure at the center.
That’s exactly where Vivienne is in my life. At the center.
But not for much longer.
There’s a churning deep in my stomach, along with the automatic gut-punch of desire that hits me every time I set eyes on Vivienne Radcliffe. I don’t want her to leave this house. And I especially don’t want her to leave me.
But after last night, after seeing the smile on her face after her private exchange with Dick on the yacht—a triumphant, satisfied smile felt like the ultimate kick in the balls—the sooner she’s gone, the better.
“I had an interesting conversation last night. An offer, actually.” She holds my stare for a moment, the current between us strong and tumultuous. “Abbott wants me back.”
Of course. That piece of shit probably got down on his knees and begged Vivienne to come back to him. They have two years of history. She and I have what—two months? “You’re going?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
It’s all I need to hear. I pull the check I wrote this morning out of the top drawer of my desk. “Here is the balance of what I owe you. I don’t have an event tonight and, since tomorrow is Labor Day, we might as well terminate our arrangement right now.”
Her jaw hinges open. “What? But I thought—”
“That I’d keep you here any longer than necessary? No, there’s no need for that.” I stand up stiffly, every part of my brain and body rebelling against the words I’m forcing up my throat and out of my mouth. “Go back to Abbott, Vivienne. Thank you for your services.”
“Thank you for your services,” she repeats dumbly. “That’s all you have to say to me? After everything I—After everything we—”