“Let me go put on a pot of coffee.” Gwen wiped her nose, wishing she could open a bottle of wine instead.
Clutching a mug a few minutes later, Gwen described the beautiful hotel and how it felt to sleep in that fantastic suite. How it felt when Salvatore surprised her with a gorgeous dress, but Andrew one-upped him with those amazing shoes. How she felt, that intense moment when he slipped the sandals on her feet.
Skye shook her head. “Okay. And did something happen with Andrew again?”
Gwen drew a sharp breath and began to let the post-fashion show story unfold.
Looking away, she gruffly said to the woman who’d just returned from church, “I slept with him again. Skye, it was even more fantastic. Not just the sex, but the connection we had this time. It felt so...real.” She kept the dirty details of what he did to her body to herself.
She, Ben and Jerry, would savor and cry over that one together. Later. Alone.
Before Gwen let her sister draw the wrong conclusion about Andrew, she backtracked to fill her sister in on what had happened to his wife. How being a widower had shaped him to react the way he had to her scars.
Skye touched her chin and focused her rich brown eyes at Gwen. She waited for the I told ya so, and See, we’re not freaks for worrying. Or words of rational wisdom about what to do in this precarious situation.
Instead, Skye asked, “Can I see the shoes?”
“Really?” Gwen bit out while rubbing her eyes again. “That’s all you got?”
Skye took a deep breath, clearing the emotion from her voice. Seeing her little sister hurt should have ignited a mama-bear, bone-crushing response. Attorneys were trained to look at matters from all sides, though. Despite the high-drama legal shows where everything ended up in court, most attorneys preferred to negotiate and settle disputes.
“Okay,” Skye finally said in a smooth even tone. “You’ll see him in the office tomorrow. You need to be strong and firm about how you feel. And ditch the ice-queen who snapped at him.”
“Speaking of ice, it’s freezing in here.” Gwen stood, grabbed her suitcase and climbed the stairs to her sad bedroom.
“What do you think you should do?” Skye asked, following her. “What’s your plan, little sister?”
Gwen rolled her luggage into the room, unconcerned it had fallen over. She crouched down to her lumpy mattress. “Maybe I should just call in sick.”
“Coward,” Skye said exhaling. “Want help unpacking?”
“No,” Gwen answered, hoping she had clean underwear for work tomorrow.
“Want me to ask Greg to stop by?”
“God, no!” Her brother would get in his cop car and hunt Andrew down.
Skye laughed. “Well, call Dad. I’m sure he wants to hear your voice.” She bent down and kissed her on the forehead. “You sure you’ll be all right by yourself?”
I always am. “Yes. Thanks, I love you.”
“Same here, kid.” Skye smiled and left.
Hours later, Gwen sat at her kitchen island and forced down some take-out food. After thinking about the possible explosion in the office, she swallowed her pride and made the first call to Andrew.
Put your big-girl pants on, Gwendolyn.
For now, it was nothing more than a let’s get the awkwardness out of the way call about how to work together going forward. Again. Ugh.
Every call went right to voicemail, though.
Hello and Ciao. You’ve reached Andrew Morgan at Prada. I can’t take your call right now, but please... He repeated the message in Italian. His deep sexy voice drove her mad. When had he created that greeting? Which Andrew had she listened to? The man who still had a wife? The recent widower? The man who’d met her?
She began calling the number just to analyze the damn message, listening to voices in the background to give her a clue.
At four a.m., Gwen gave up.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
he next morning, Gwen boarded her train to the city with wet hair she’d been too lazy to blow-Tdry. With every mile on the long monotonous journey, she turned more and more numb.
She sat with her phone still clutched to her palm, and prayed for a call or even a text from Andrew. The nothing, the silence, made it hard to breathe.
Then several emails from Enrico poured in. He laid out her next assignment: Work with the advertising team for a holiday campaign and set up the promotional VIP parties and other events.
While Starlight gave those tasks to the greenest employees, at Prada, no event or campaign was unimportant. Gwen imagined Prada’s holiday marketing budgets were huge.
Enrico had also put her in charge of Salvatore’s new collection. Her experience qualified her to develop a strategic marketing plan. Andrew hadn’t been copied on any of the emails. Enrico hadn’t mentioned Andrew at all. No, work with Andrew on this, or get with Andrew for that.
Good God! Had he told Enrico what happened between them in L.A.? She’d be mortified to face her boss now.
On the elevator to the marketing floor, her stomach churned, but anger took over. She planned to walk in that office, give Andrew a stiff nod, and not speak to him after all.
Her legs wobbled as she swayed in that direction gearing up for the confrontation. The stainless-steel lever felt colder than she remembered. Andrew must have already iced it over.
“Gwendolyn.”
She blinked and turned around. “Hi, Enrico. I’m sorry I’m late. I’m still jet-lagged.”
“You look like you flew home on the wings of the plane,” he said.
Which one of the three, she wondered? Probably all of them, based on how she felt at the moment.
The muted steel-blue sweater dress and dark stockings she’d put on this morning fit her somber mood.
To make this the perfect start of a new week, her period had arrived and the pain bordered on unbearable.
With Enrico there, a small dose of relief crept through her. She wouldn’t be facing Andrew alone.
It would be too jarring, after all. Searching for something to say out of stress made people do and say stupid shit.
“Do you need something, Enrico?” she asked with inviting eyes. Please don’t go.
“Yes, I want to talk to you about Andrew.” Unless Enrico wasn’t neutral.
Andrew did say something. Son of a bitch, she screamed in her head, but in a calm voice said,
“Okay. Let’s go to your office.”
“No, your office is fine.” He tapped on the wood, encouraging her to open the door.
Oh. Dear. God. He wanted a face-to-face intervention.
She gripped the door handle again, and her heart rate lowered. A locked office meant Andrew hadn’t arrived yet and wouldn’t be sitting in his chair with a pissed-off look on his face. She had time to get her shit together.
Inside the office, his familiar scent made her stomach flip. It wasn’t even cologne. It turned out to be a combination of his soap, fresh laundered shirts, and his intense masculinity that left a taste of him in the air. Oh God! She missed him.
She got her control in check and turned to her boss. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Sit down, Gwendolyn.”
The fear that something might have happened to Andrew hit her so swiftly she had to sit down. If she didn’t get a grip on her emotions, the terrible Chinese food from last night would end up all over her desk.