Aaron.
My ex Aaron.
My ex because I’d left.
“What’s wrong?”
“Your father fell,” Aaron said. “He’s in the hospital.”
“What?” I gasped, my head falling back against the tree, my heart pounding. “What happened?”
“He decided he had to shovel the driveway—”
“What?! But I hired someone to come and do that—”
Cold infiltrated the airwaves. “Except that someone didn’t show up and your father decided he couldn’t wait for me to come over and do it.”
So many things wrong with that statement.
Why the company I’d hired hadn’t shown up, why Aaron would still be seeing my father, why my father would think it was a good idea to go out and shovel his driveway at sixty-nine years old after surviving four heart attacks.
“Is he okay?”
“He needs surgery.”
I gasped. “Oh my God! I—”
Cheers erupted from the audience behind me, Damon and Eden probably making their way down the aisle.
“Never mind. I can tell you’re busy. I shouldn’t have called,” Aaron said, still cold, still so similar to how he’d sounded when I’d told him I was leaving—moving to L.A., leaving Ohio behind. So different from how he’d sounded when we’d been together. But I’d made his warmth disappear as easily as freshly baked pumpkin pie around my father.
My father.
Shit.
Eyes burning at the thought of him all alone in the hospital. “I’ll be on—”
Another cheer, voices coming my way.
“Enjoy your party, Mags.”
I’d been about to say I’d be on the next plane home, but Aaron hung up.
And I was left with silence in my ear, a worried and aching heart . . . alone but somehow still surrounded by people.
Alone, but not.
That was fitting.
Sighing, I shoved my phone into my pocket, went to retrieve my coat and purse, bypassing the bride and groom, not wanting to spoil their special day. Then I called a Lyft, headed to the airport, and hopped on the first plane to Ohio.
To Aaron—
No. To my father.
Only my father. Because Aaron was strictly in the past. We were over. There wasn’t a future for us.
I’d made certain of it.
But as the plane soared across the sky, closing the distance between present and past, I was having a hard time remembering why I’d made certain of it.
I missed him.
And I’d . . . never stopped loving him.
End Scene
Maggie and Aaron’s story is coming August 24th, 2020
Preorder at www.books2read.com/EndScene
Chauvinist Stories
Bitch
Cougar
Whore
End Scene
Chauvinist Series
Did you miss any of the other Chauvinist series books? Check out excerpts from the series below or find the full series at http://elisefaber.com/chauviniststories
“What did you say?”
Cole McTavish.
A tall hunk of a former hockey player, all muscled thighs and towering height, with a face that would have been classified as beautiful if not for the several-times-broken nose, the jagged scar along his jaw, and the small, smooth one bisecting his left eyebrow.
Further that, he was about as opposite from me as anyone I’d ever met.
Relaxed, always ready with an easy smile, Cole never raised his voice—at least off the ice. On it, he’d been a terror, a virtually unstoppable force who’d fought when needed and didn’t back down from protecting a teammate.
I’d also been his agent while he was playing.
After he’d retired, I’d transitioned him over to Devon, who’d helped him refine his brand for post-playing opportunities. Now, he was the face for a few hockey companies and one well-known corporation that sold watches. Though, to my and the rest of the female populace’s dismay, he’d turned down the swimwear ads.
I’d been with him in the locker room enough to know what was under those flannel shirts and jeans.
It was definitely billboard worthy.
Lane started to push by him, but Cole grabbed his shoulder and stepped into my office, forcing Lane back.
Devon Scott trailed them in, a stormy expression on his face.
I glanced at my boss and shook my head, silently telling him I’d already handled it, but Dev shook his head firmly back at me. Which was when I realized that what Lane had said must have been worse than I’d thought. Normally, Devon would never get involved in an argument between my employees and myself unless I asked him to.
Which I didn’t.
Since I handled my own shit.
“Tell her what you said.”
My gaze flashed to Cole and his darkened face. “It’s—”
Emerald eyes locked onto mine, sparking fire. “Tell her,” he said, and Lane must have realized exactly how deep of a pile of shit he’d dived into because when I broke Cole’s stare to glance at my assistant, his face had gone pale.
I rested my hip against my desk. “I don’t need to hear it. Lane, get the file.”
Devon crossed his arms. “Tell her,” he said. “If you’re man enough to mutter it under your breath, you’re man enough to say it aloud.”
Lane shook off Cole and spun to face me. “Fine,” he snapped. “I said that you’re such a fucking bitch.”
My lips curved and I huffed. “Okay, great, thanks. Now, back to work.”
Lane’s jaw fell open.
A curl of amusement crept onto Dev’s face.
Cole appeared even more infuriated.
Lane somehow went paler. “Wh-what?”
“I’ve got a ton of work,” I told him, “and you say bitch like it’s a bad thing.” I transferred my gaze to Cole and Dev. “All of you are acting like it’s the worst insult in the world.” I laughed. “Believe me, I’ve been called worse.”
“It’s unacceptable,” Dev said, and I loved the guy for it.
But this was also the way of the world.
Most men despised strong women. We were told to smile or look happy or be fine with the scraps they tossed our way. If I’d had an issue with men calling me a bitch, I would have quit this male-dominated field ten years ago when I’d been a lowly assistant like Lane and my boss had been a lot worse than a bitch.
But I hadn’t.
I’d put my head down, got my shit done.
And I’d learned to not give two craps when a man thought I was a bitch.
Because it had become my anthem.
When I negotiated my client to have equivalent perks in their contract, I was a bitch.
When I demanded a different client have access to the same off-season training as the rest of the team, I was a bitch.
When I secured a bonus that was similar to the rest of the big names on the roster, I was a bitch.