It seemed like a good idea at the time. I was, and am, floored that someone as dripping with sex appeal as Landon could be a card-carrying virgin. But I was too nervous about offending him to ask any of the questions piling up in my head. It seemed better to just leave.
But looking back, I know I could have handled it much better. I owe him a major apology.
I roll onto my side, trying to will myself awake, but the sight of the empty space in the bed next to me makes me want to crawl back under the covers and pretend none of this ever happened. But if I did, I’m sure I would just notice that my sheets still smell faintly of him, and that might make matters worse.
No more hiding, Aubree. You have to face the mess you’ve made.
Digging through the sheets, I find my cell phone buried in the bed, then scroll to Landon’s contact, suck in a deep breath, and press the call button.
“Hello, you’ve reached Landon Covington . . .”
I hang up before I hear the rest.
Shit, straight to voice mail? Does he turn his phone off when he goes to bed? Looks like I’ll be doing this the old-fashioned way.
Tossing back the covers, I sit up, grab the room phone off the end table, and punch the button for the front desk. “Hi, can you connect me with Landon Covington in suite 2001?”
The clicking of computer keys comes over the line, followed by an extended pause from the woman on the other end. “I’m sorry, ma’am, it looks like Mr. Covington has already checked out.”
My stomach lurches. Where the hell did he go? It’s barely nine in the morning, and our flight back to Seattle doesn’t leave until four.
“May I ask how long ago he left?”
There are more typing sounds, followed by an answer that only leaves me even more confused. “A little over two hours ago.”
Slowly, the pieces start to come together in my head. If Landon’s been gone for two hours and his phone is going straight to voice mail, it’s not turned off. It’s on airplane mode.
“Thank you,” I mumble into the phone, then drop it back onto the cradle, an unexpected knot forming in my stomach.
Without so much as a good-bye, my husband has left Las Vegas.
5
* * *
The Real World
Aubree
Today is the most Monday of Mondays to ever Monday.
After my long weekend in Vegas, all I want to do is put on a face mask, drink a cup of tea, and detox from all the noise, glitter, and bad decisions. Instead, I’m sitting at my desk with the biggest latte the coffee shop down the street could legally sell me without it being a health hazard, wondering, A) if I should have taken another vacation day to recover from traveling, and, B) if I fell asleep at my desk, would anyone notice?
Unfortunately, the answer to both of those questions is a big fat yes.
I’ve spent my entire professional career working for this charity organization. When I was fresh out of college, they hired me on as an intern to sort mail and work the tables at charity events. But I’ve spent the eight years since then climbing up the ranks, and now I’m in charge of everything related to fund-raising.
Thanks to my department, our organization serves tons of underprivileged kids in the city, making hockey accessible to families who couldn’t otherwise afford extracurricular sports. And while I’ve spent the last eight years being overworked and underpaid, it’s all worth it when I meet the kids who attend our athlete-led camps, and get to watch their eyes light up when they meet their heroes.
Unfortunately, not every day on the job is as magical as that. For example, today.
I’m scrolling through our database of new donors, all of whom need to receive a handwritten thank-you note. But my mind is anywhere but here. Mostly, it’s on the diamond ring that I slipped off and hid in my dresser drawer, and whether Landon will ever respond to me so we can discuss it. Plus, I want to apologize for freaking out and bolting at the news that he’s a virgin. But it’s kind of hard to do that when I can’t even get a text back.
I eye the thick stack of thank-you notes on my desk, wondering if I should resort to snail mail to get in touch with him. What would I write? Thank you so much for your donation of this enormous diamond ring. Now, can we freaking talk about this?
My mini freak-out is delayed by a familiar cheerful voice coming from just outside my office door.
“Welcome back, Aubree.”
David Stone, the director of the organization, is standing in my doorway, shooting me a big warm smile. If he weren’t my boss and also the single most likable guy on the planet, I’d probably shoo him away in an effort to skip the small talk and get some work done. But he’s both of those things, so I push my stack of thank-you cards aside.
“How was Vegas?” he asks, staying put until I wave him inside. The guy is almost too polite.
“It was . . . Vegas. Nothing big to report,” I lie. If possible, I’d like to keep the whole drunken-marriage-to-a-player info as far away from the office as I can. News like that has a way of getting out, but the longer I can put it off, the better.
“There’s actually something I wanted to talk to you about.” David eyes the plush blue chair across from my desk. “Mind if I take a seat?”
I nod, sitting up a little straighter as he settles in across from me. “What’s up?”
Instead of an answer, I get another question. “Have you ever been to Vancouver?”
I shake my head. “I’ve never even left the country. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve been in talks with a youth hockey organization there,” he says. “Great program. Or at least, it was. Their executive director recently passed away, and things have been pretty scattered for them ever since. It’s been a year now, and they still haven’t been able to get it sorted. Anyway, they reached out to us about absorbing their programs, along with their donors. They do incredibly similar work to us, with one major difference.” He pauses for dramatic effect, then adds, “It’s entirely for girls.”
My eyes widen in interest. “Really? That’s incredible.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” David says, a confident grin stretching across his face. “Which is why I think you’re the perfect person to lead the expansion.”
My breath catches in my throat. “Lead? What do you mean?”
“Be in charge, take the reins, steer the ship!” His smile is huge.
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, resisting the urge to ask David if he recently bought a thesaurus. “Why me?”
His tone becomes more serious. “I know how passionate you are about underprivileged kids, and sports, and you’ve been with us for coming up on a decade now. You know this organization backward and forward. This could be your perfect next step.”
I fumble for the right words, but my brain is a mess of questions. The only sentence I can formulate is an incomplete one, and it comes out slow and uncertain. “But . . . Vancouver?”
David nods firmly. “You’d have to relocate. But it’s only a three-and-a-half-hour drive away. And we’d cover your cost of moving.”
My gaze flickers from David to the walls of my office, trying to soak in all the memories I’ve made here over the past eight years.