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“Shut up!” The boss’s daughter buried her face in her hands, though it took me a minute to work out it was her. She’d grown up since I was last home. Really grown up. Not taller, because she’d always been tiny. But I guess she was just a late bloomer. And, boy, had she bloomed.
“Are you a sexy bottle of ketchup, Mr. Hot Gardener? Because I could just squeeze you!” The girl, whatever her name was, spun around, probably to give me a flash of her ass in her red thong bikini. “Clara Forbes,” she exclaimed, “you have been holding out on us!”
I ducked my head to hide my smile. It’s not like I was short on attention, but I’d never been catcalled. I enjoyed the novelty.
When I came back around with the mower later, Clara was there by herself. Her hair was wild, chestnut streaked with gold, her teeth a brilliant white against her summer tan. The sight of her draped over the sun lounger by the pool . . . and the things that followed would’ve made Lady Chatterley’s lover reach for a high five. Kissing her that summer became as essential as breathing. And the sensation of those curves of hers pressed up against me, all soft, lush, and womanly—
The elevator chimes.
Fuck memory lane and its dangerous potholes.
The doors glide open. I gesture—ladies first.
Time to get to the bottom of whatever this bullshit is.
Chapter 3
Clara
His smile gutters like a candle flame as we step into the elevator car, that skillfully employed charm turning off like a faucet.
I’m not sure if it’s better or worse that he’s ignoring me. My skin feels prickly and hot, my emotions on full-volume blast as my head talk-talk-talks to me.
I need to apologize.
To try to explain what happened back then.
I know sorry isn’t enough, but it’s all I have right now.
Stop. Lord, today was not the day to play Russian roulette with my meds. I screw my eyes tight and try to run through a script I picked up in therapy.
Recognize: The twist in my stomach is guilt.
Restructure: I am not the same person as I was before.
Repeat: I am valid. I am worthy. I am human. And I am truly sorry.
I rub my lips together as I try to arrange my thoughts, to put the words in some order. Yet all I can think is that the one to speak first reveals a weakness.
“How is your mom?” The question spills anyway.
His answer is a look so cold, I’m surprised the car doesn’t fill with frost.
So maybe I deserved that. Not that I don’t want to conjure quicksand to swallow me up. “I hope she’s well,” I add quietly, trying so hard not to cry. Stupid question, Clara. You don’t get to ask that after what you’ve done. That’s not to say I don’t think of her often. Or feel the weight of my guilt.
“Your party seemed to be going well.” This feels like another noisy-brained white flag attempt. But I guess Troy isn’t aware that a flag of truce has been codified into the Hague Convention, as not a flicker of recognition crosses his stupidly handsome face. Maybe if I waved my panties . . . I mentally slap myself for the ridiculous thought. “Anyway, it’s good to hear you’re doing well.”
“To hear I’m doing well?” The velvet nap of his voice brushes at my skin. Deep, rich, sensual. Just not at all warm right now.
“Just . . . downstairs.” Because I never ever googled your name, too worried for what I might find. “Someone mentioned the IPO.” The doors open, but he doesn’t move. “It’s great.” My smile feels weird, like it doesn’t want to hold. “Really great. Not that I had any doubt you’d do amazing. You always were so—”
“Clara, just stop.”
Shame licks at my insides as the doors begin to close. I can’t change the past, but it doesn’t stop me from wishing once more that I could. If I had a do-over—if I knew I had the courage to do other, do better, I wouldn’t have hurt him. And then I wouldn’t be living with this sense of shame.
“No thanks to you,” he murmurs. “That’s what I’m supposed to say, right?”
Tears sting behind my eyelids as a ball of emotion lodges itself at the back of my throat. Thanks, emotional dysregulation. Rejection just hits so much harder when I’m not regular with my meds. “Troy. I’m truly—”
