My heel breaks when I try to launch toward him. I stumble, catching myself in a crouch on the ground. When I look up, he’s replaced by a stalking lion, which looks like it wants to tear me to pieces.
“No!” I scream, jerking up.
I breathe slowly, deeply, fitfully.
Seriously.
Screw dreaming.
But I don’t need a date with a dream interpreter to make sense of that mess. The pattern is clear.
Mag oversteps, overreaches, hurts me, and then he runs away.
This isn’t the first warning from the universe, either. The same day Paige warned me, a black cat stared me down in front of the office. It wasn’t bad luck.
It was an omen, and I ignored it.
“Please be wrong,” I pray, grabbing my phone.
No calls. No voicemails. No texts. No emails.
He just doesn’t care. Or else he’s walled in, beating himself up over Jordan, or maybe assembling a crack team of lawyers and former SEALs to rescue the poor boy.
Still. Not even a single freaking text?
A dark voice in the back of my head says, you’re out, and he’s not letting you back in. How long are you going to wait around?
But I’m not this time. I can’t.
I don’t even care if I get a termination notice. I can’t deal with that man again.
I need an exit plan.
Sighing, I retrieve my laptop and check my bank account. In roughly six months at HeronComm, I’ve banked almost forty thousand dollars after taxes and living expenses.
So maybe I can keep myself and my parents afloat for a while.
On a whim, I check Mag’s email and snort.
It’s overflowing rapidly. He’ll never be able to sort it all. Then I open my company email and begin typing.
To: Ruby Hunting, HR Director.
From: Sabrina Bristol
Subject: Down and Out
Hi Ruby,
Due to unforeseeable changes in my situation, I need to use my vacation days. All of them.
If you’re unable to fulfill this request, then I’ll put in my notice immediately and expect to be paid out for all remaining vacation days per the employee handbook.
Have a good day.
Sabrina Bristol
Executive Assistant to Magnus Heron, HeronComm Inc.
I don’t care if I get a response.
I’ll burn my vacation before I quit, or they can pay me for it later.
I’m not going back, and right now that’s all that matters.
But I’m probably not going to have access to a town car and driver anymore, so I should start looking for a used car. Maybe a red convertible.
Making plans helps manage the heartache, a distraction from the tragic fact that I loved Magnus Heron.
I just wish all the self-empowerment in the world eased things permanently.
Huffing out a breath, I text Armstrong.
Sabrina: Is King Maggot keeping you busy today?
Armstrong: Hey, Brina! Not so much. Do you need anything?
For a second, I frown, right before disgust whips through me.
No way.
I’m not going to let myself worry over Armstrong sounding like he hasn’t seen Mag today.
Sabrina: Any chance you could give me a ride to a car lot on the south side and maybe help me haggle? I’m thinking about new wheels.
Armstrong: Heck yeah! I spend enough time on the road to know a thing or two about what’s good. Be right over.
I have to make a forty-minute trip in a car that smells like Mag, but I save cab fare and don’t have to deal with the bus.
It’s kind of incredible how fast it comes together.
Armstrong argues the salesman down to eight thousand dollars like a pro, and suddenly I’m the proud owner of a shiny red convertible that seems like it was just waiting for me.
My first real car. A lifeline to escape the city if I can’t get a lid back on my nerves.
When it’s over, I grin at Armstrong. “Thank you so much. I owe you.”
“Nah, she’s a beauty,” he says, beaming back a grin. “I’m happy for you, lady. Where are you driving her first?”
“My parents’ place. I usually have to take a cab or bum a ride. It takes forever by bus.”
“Have fun.” He gives me a thumbs-up and starts climbing back in the town car. “Hope this takes the edge off...well, you know.”
I smile bitterly as he gives me an apologetic look.
Oh, I know. And it’s not his fault.
The only person who owes me a sorry is the awful perma-grump of a human being I used to call boss, the man I’m never taking back.
If my new wheels are freedom, then let them set me free from all things Mag.
Less than an hour later, I park the convertible in front of the old brick house.
Of course, the door isn’t locked. Dad sits on the couch like he’s superglued to it, watching a game.
“Welcome home, babe! I was starting to think you’re just a myth these days,” he says, throwing his arms out.
“Hi, Dad.” Don’t sound sad, I tell myself.
“Is that my Brina?” Mom calls from the kitchen, and I smile at her familiar catchphrase.
I start walking to greet her, but she stops in the doorway before I get there. “Oh, honey, what happened?”
“Huh?”
“Your face. It looks like you just came back from a funeral. Are you okay?”
I nod vigorously, hoping if I shake my head hard enough, maybe I can cover up the obvious damage inflicted by one heartless man. I should’ve known there’d be no fooling her.
“You’re sure?” Mom asks, lifting a skeptical eyebrow.
“I just need some coffee. Long night,” I tell her, rubbing my eyes.
“Come sit down at the table. I just made a fresh pot,” she says, pulling me into the kitchen by the hand.
I flump down in a wooden chair, folding my arms over the table, and lay my head down.
She brings a cup of coffee and puts it down beside me. “What happened, baby?”
“Nothing,” I say, hating how she uses her mom-ray vision to see right through me.
“You haven’t just randomly shown up here in a while,” she whispers, her expression flat.
“Yeah, sorry. I’ve just been really busy and—”
“What did Magnus do?”
I look up as her question cuts me off. With me, she’s practically psychic.
“Nothing,” I try again, shaking my head.
“You’re not ready to talk about it. That’s okay.” She sits down in the chair next to me and I hear her pen scratching on a thick notepad.
Even with my head down and my eyes closed, I know she’s writing. My mom’s old-school and she outlines her notes by hand before diving into her books on the laptop.
I lift my head. “What are you working on now?”
“A sequel to Farm Love, because it sold so well.”
I give her a wry smile and take a heavenly sip of my coffee. It’s so sweet and cinnamon-y I almost pucker. Apparently she knew I needed the sugar and spice rush today.
“You write romance. They were together by the end of the first book. What’s left?” I ask.
She laughs. “Farm Love was a romantic comedy with a twist of suspense, not romance. Don’t you remember? You read it.”