It was one thing after the next until I was a frazzled mess hailing a cab and rushing to my meeting.
Despite all that earlier confidence, knowing that I'm about to come face-to-face with Brad after not seeing him for six months is starting to wear me thin. The last time I saw his stupidly attractive face had been while he was in the throes of pleasure as my sister rode his naked and grunting body.
But ready or not, it's time for me to put another gloomy chapter behind me and continue to pick up the pieces of my jacked-up life.
My palms are sweaty and my hands shake just as much as my legs tremble as I walk into the office of Buchanan and Buchanan. Taking a timid side-glance around the swanky office, I take a deep breath when I don't see Brad. Thank God.
I've always hated waiting in this lobby. The firm offers a wide array of services, so finding the lobby empty like it is today is uncommon. Regardless of that fact, it still feels like an expensively decorated holding cell.
Stepping up to the receptionist's desk, I softly say, "Ms. Tate for Randy Buchanan, please." She doesn't look up from her computer; she raises one thin, perfectly manicured finger, which I'm guessing is a signal to wait, before she points over at the seating area to my left.
Right. Dismissed.
My nerves do nothing but jump up the charts as I sit there and wring my fingers together. My earlier determination to be confident and strong dies with each second that ticks by. Once again, I'm that weak, little girl I've hated for the last decade. My purse strap digs into my shoulders as I sit there, rigid and full of fear. I loathe feeling like this. I've worked hard not to feel like this. Constantly nervous. Afraid of what others think about me. So unsure of myself. I know why I feel like this. And I hate that even after all these months apart, months I've worked hard to change, knowing Brad will be here has me reverting instantly. He was the catalyst for all my problems spiraling out of control, so it makes sense that just the mention of seeing him again has me regressing to that person. Years of being his verbal whipping post, making it a struggle to enjoy the simplest of tasks without fear, are piling thick on my shoulders.
And naturally, during my inner panic is when Brad walks in ... no, struts in is more like it. Not a hair out of place. His suit tailored impeccably to project his normal look of perfection and his whole air of arrogant affluence. Of course, when he walks up to the receptionist, she smiles and bats her thick lashes and--gag--giggles. They look like Barbie and Ken up there. Permanent faces of perfect happiness etched in their expressions.
"Excuse me, but could you stop your pathetic flirting with my man?"
My jaw drops at the voice that interrupts my musings. Probably dropped to the same place my heart just landed.
At my feet.
I'm going to vomit.
There isn't a thing I can do but sit here like an idiot and gape as my sister walks to Brad's side, swaying her thin, narrow hips seductively. She threads her arm around his waist before placing one perfectly manicured hand on his chest. The sight of them together holds my gaze hostage as she looks around his body. If looks could kill, I would be dead the second her eyes connected with mine.
I'm going to be sick. It's official.
I hear the receptionist say something. I assume she's talking to Brad because, with a nod, he turns and walks to the other side of the room, pulling my sister with him. Her eyes never leave mine, but he completely ignores me.
No shocker there.
It's been years since Brad has been able to stand to look at me.
After ten terribly nauseating minutes of studying my hands to avoid looking at Brad and Ivy, our attorneys step out. Mine, the first Buchanan in Buchanan and Buchanan, walks over with a sympathetic smile and offers his hand. Randy was an old college friend of my mother's, so when I needed an attorney in a rush, I didn't falter in contacting him, even if I can just barely afford his rates. But, true to my unlucky nature, his brother just so happens to have connections with Brad's family and didn't have any issues being his counsel, even if family law isn't his focus.
Rushing to stand, I fumble with my heavy purse, but in my haste to keep my eyes away from the duo of doom, I gravely miscalculate every inch in my rush to stand. Mutely, I watch in horror as the strap to my purse snaps. The heavy bag drops in an embarrassingly slow-motion display, and with a slap against the marble floor, every content inside my overstuffed bag spills and scatters around me.
Lip gloss, pens, notepad, cell phone, wallet, probably every spare coin ever made and--oh, God--tampons and maxi pads. Because, naturally, it's completely normal for someone to be a walking dispenser for any menstrual issue needs.
"Oh, God," I gasp and twist to bend so that I can collect all my spilled crap. But before I even have a chance to blink, I'm flat on my back when my ankle gives out and twists on whatever I manage to hook on my stupid granny heel.
This day couldn't get any worse than right here at this moment as I lay sprawled out on the floor with my personal belongings scattered around me. What did I say? Just like checkers, the final piece--me--has finally fallen.
I can't breathe, and it has nothing to do with the fact I'm pretty sure all air I had in my lungs just got knocked straight out of my body with the force of my landing. This would have been embarrassing enough without anyone to witness it, but knowing the two people who would love nothing more than to see me stoned got a front row seat.
Yeah, I'm going to vomit.
"What a mess, Brad. Aren't you thrilled you're finally going to be rid of ... well, that?" My sister's hurtful words bring a heated blush to my face and my nose pricks with tears. Tears that I'm determined not to shed while they can see me. Tonight, alone in my small apartment, I'll drown in them, but here ... no.
"Willow? Are you okay?" I hear at the same time as the receptionist calls out my attorney's name and frantically waves at the phone.
"It's Mr. Logan with the Logan Agency. He says it's imperative he speaks to you before your meeting with the Tates."
"Kill me now," I wheeze when I hear my father's name. Rolling to my side, I make the always-awkward attempt to climb to my feet. It feels like every eye in the room is watching me. Judging me.
"I'm sorry, Willow. I have to take this," Randy explains and moves to help me stand.
"Allow me," I hear spoken from my other side, stopping me before I can move from my position seated on my bottom with my hands ready to push off the ground. The smooth rasp of his voice wraps around me. Those two words were said low, but with sympathy, and cause me to snap my eyes from the horrified ones of Mr. Buchanan and over to where that sinfully deep voice came from.
I hadn't noticed anyone else in the room, let alone someone who must have been sitting just a few chairs down from where I had been before my crash to rock bottom. Literally. He moves to stand before I can see his face, but his denim-clad legs hit my vision. All I can see is two muscular thighs molded in dark-wash denim as if they were made for the man. As he moves closer to my body, I feel something like electricity lightly zapping my skin.
If his face matches what I can see, I can only imagine how good looking he is. God, I really am surrounded by perfect people. Even Randy Buchanan at his ripe age of sixty-two has a body I'm sure he spends hours a day in the gym to keep looking that way. I don't even need to see this stranger's face; with a body like that, he could be a troll and still be closer to perfection than I'll ever see in myself. Is it too much to ask to see someone, anyone, who doesn't look like they were made from a mold?
Great, just what I need; another witness to this repulsive scene my checkers of a day fated to suck created.
"It's all right, Mr. Masters. I have it. Won't take but a second, right, Willow?" Mr. Buchanan asks, bending to assist me from the floor. Where I still haven't moved.
"That might be, Rand, but it looks like you're needed elsewhere," the man, Mr. Masters, continues. He raises one hand from the side of his body and points over toward where the receptionist is still trying to get my attorney's att
ention and then bends at the waist to offer me his hand.
I get my first glimpse of the man behind that voice.
The foreign feeling of pure lust coils so tightly that it steals the breath straight from my lungs.
My cheeks flame once again as goosebumps fire across my skin when I realize just who has been witness to my living nightmare. Oh. My. God. Mr. Masters?! The one and only, Mr. Kane Masters. Sexiest Man Alive, most wanted actor around, the object of lust for maybe every woman in the whole entire WORLD! Good God! It can't be. There's no way that ... no ... oh, crap. I was wrong; this day could and did get worse.
"I ... please ... I'm so sorry," I whisper meekly. Please, God, open the ground up and swallow me whole. Just end it now. "Please, don't worry about me ... oh, God."
"Willow, was it?" he asks, reaching out and pulling me off the floor with his hands hooked under my armpits. Am I sweating there too? I feel like I am. Holy crap, is he touching my pit sweat? "Are you okay?" he questions, continuing to assess me. Did I nod? I might have ... or maybe I'm just gaping at him like the freaking idiot I am. "Do you need medical assistance?" he continues when I don't say a word.
"I--I'm--crap, I'm okay. Only what was left of my pride was damaged." I don't say anything else, but duck my head to avoid his penetrating gaze and kneel on the floor to start grabbing whatever I can within reach, stuffing everything hastily back into my purse.
"Kane, if you would follow me, I can take you back to Steven's office while he's busy," I hear the receptionist say, closer this time. I'm sure if I were to look, she would be right next to us.
I don't look, but I can tell he doesn't move. His presence isn't something I can ignore, and it just makes me gather my things a little quicker. What is wrong with me? Or a better question is what is he doing to my body? Every inch of my skin feels his presence like a physical touch. Please, just leave. Don't stay. God, please don't stay.
"Are you okay, Willow?" The concern is evident in his tone, and it's the only reason I pause long enough to look up and meet his eyes. That and the way my name sounds so sinful and erotic from his lips. His blue eyes, the color of the Caribbean Sea, don't hold an ounce of sympathy. They're imploring me with unasked questions, but the concern written all over his face is exposed. For me. That look, something I haven't seen in a long time from anyone other than my two best friends, stops me still.
"I'm ... I'll--thank you for asking, but I'll be fine." I have no clue how I managed to get that out, but if I was hoping it would appease him, I was wrong.
"Right. I've no doubt about that, Willow. But it would ease my mind if you would at least allow me to offer some assistance."
Oh, God. I need to get away. I don't know how to even begin processing the way he's making me feel. My feelings surmount the embarrassment I have over this situation. "That's okay, Mr. Masters. I'm sure you have more important things to do. Thank you, though." Right. That wasn't too hard. At least, I made complete sentences this time. Well done, Willow.
"Nothing that can't wait for me to help a beautiful woman out," he says, and I snap my head back, knocking it against the wooden table behind where I'm crouched on the floor. "Shit," he gruffs. Then, as if it couldn't get worse, he crouches down and his long, thick fingers dive into my hair and rub against the spot I just banged. The second he touches my scalp, a fire shoots from the pads of his fingers and pings around my body like lava.
"It's fine. I'm fine. Please ..." I plead and look up through the foggy haze created by my unshed tears.
I watch his eyes fire, something working quickly over his expression before he wipes it clean. Before I can give it much thought, relief washes over me. Whatever he sees in the gaze he's holding prisoner must be enough. A deep breath of air rushes from his full lips and warms my already burning face before he nods once and moves away from me. He doesn't speak again; instead, he gathers the rest of my personal belongings and places them back in my broken purse. I pull myself from the floor carefully to avoid looking like the weakling that I am, and when Kane stands, I take my broken bag from his fingers. He doesn't speak, just nods when I clutch it to my chest as if it was a shield.
"Thank you," I murmur, not looking up from his chest.
"It was nothing." He sighs softly.
"Well, thank you nonetheless. I'm sorry for interrupting your morning."
"At the risk of sounding like a jerk, the interruption was my pleasure."
My eyes flit to his quickly, and my mouth opens. I blink ... slowly ... a few times as his full lips turn up into a smile that makes my already racing heart pick up speed.
"Good luck in there, beautiful Willow."
Another slow blink. Did Kane Masters just call me beautiful? Surely, not.
"Until next time," he continues his deep rumbles.
Do what?
With that, he turns and walks over to the receptionist. With one more glance back, he follows her out of the lobby.
I take a few more minutes to collect myself before I grab the rest of my things and head to the doorway the others went through earlier. As hard as it is going to be to forget any of the last ten minutes happened, I do my best to shove that embarrassing scene into my box of shame deep within and collect the last shred of my pride before heading off to end this terrible chapter of my life.
An hour later, my divorce from Brad finally becomes official. It was easy enough; I asked for nothing knowing damn well it wouldn't be given without a fight I couldn't afford. I spent the whole time inside the conference room staring at my hands while my headache intensified. When I managed to pull my pride up like a proverbial big tug of my britches earlier and walk through the door, the first thing my eyes met were the hate-filled gaze of Brad Tate, my now ex-husband. When I sat down across the table from my perfectly tailored ex-husband, all I could do was wonder, and not for the first time, how we ever made it through four years of marriage. He sat there with a tight lip and narrow eyes, never wavering in his directed probing, as I tried my hardest to remember if we ever even liked each other.
No, I take that back. I liked him. But I can admit now it wasn't love. I loved the idea of him, but it was only ever an unhealthy way for me to feel like I was desired by someone. I was alone and miserable, grasping at anything I could find to feel. But I can honestly say now it was never love.
He sat there as the mirror image of perfection. His body, one of his better qualities, looked nothing short of impeccable in his dark suit. His hair styled flawlessly and his face-the one I used to find so handsome--couldn't even hide his attractiveness with the twisted look of abhorrence he directed across the table at me.
And next to him sat my sister, Ivy. His way of making sure this day was even more painful for me, and she most likely was all for making sure that was the case. We have never gotten along. Not even as children. She is the only person, besides Brad and my father, that is, who I might hate the most.
And sadly, I've played into her hand far too often. When I look over at my sister, I see everything I'm not. Everything she's made sure to remind me that I never will be.
We may be sisters, but we're also complete opposites in looks and personality.
Ivy, like me, is tall, but Ivy is also a product of the utmost beauty money can buy. Beauty she has no problem spending one hell of a pretty penny to maintain. It's really a shame she couldn't pay someone to fix her evil, black soul.
"Well, Mrs. Tate," my lawyer starts while shuffling some of the papers around in front of him. "It looks as if everything is in order." He hands his thick stack over to his partner and together they make sure everything is, in fact, in order.
I don't speak.
My sister makes a noise deep in her throat that has me wondering if she's choking on her tongue.
"Don't you mean Ms.?" Brad retorts, venom dripping from each word.
My attorney clears his throat and looks at me with pity before addressing Brad. "Yes, my apologies, Mr. Tate. Slip of the tongue."
"How long until we can take car
e of that issue?" Brad strangely requests, looking over at the other Mr. Buchanan.
"Take care of what issue exactly, Mr. Tate?" my attorney interjects.
My eyes move from my lawyer to Brad. His eyes flash in anger before he slams his fist on the polished wood causing my headache to pierce through my skull.
"How long until that woman can be rid of my name?"
That woman? Jesus. You would think I was some stranger and not the woman he married and pledged forever to.
"Excuse me?" I whisper harshly, trying not to vomit from the pressure of pain my head is bringing me.
"You heard me, Willow. You have no business with my name now that we are no longer married. I'll be damned if I allow you to tarnish my family's good name any longer. Especially now that I'm finally rid of you."
Ivy snickers, and my gaze moves over to hers. Her thick black hair is pulled back so harshly in a tight bun that it looks like her scalp is about to peel right away at her hairline. There isn't a single part of her that isn't made up right now. But even with the amount of Botox she shoots into her face, I can still see the hate burning brightly in her gaze.
"Why exactly are you even here, Ivy?" I snap. God, it feels good to let out some of my anger.
Her evil little smirk, or at least I think it was a smirk, slips. Maybe she has gas. Her eyes twitch and I guess that's her only way to narrow them since she can't actually change her expression.
"You stupid little cow. I'm here because, unlike you, I belong on the arm of my Bradie-poo."