Take a Bow (The Perfect Plans Series Book 2) (28 page)

“OH, GOOD LORD, this Cosmo is divine,” Stacey moans, sucking the last sip through the straw. “I swear, sometimes I come up with ideas of epic proportions,” she gleams her big green eyes at me, a charming smirk donning her face.

True enough, the mani/pedi idea combined with alcoholic beverages a-la-straw while we got our nails done
was
a fantastic idea. “Why do you think I’ve kept you around this long,” I tease.

“Hardy-har-har,
sweet tits
,” she sits up, testing the drying red polish on her nails. “I have a fantastic rebuke for that less than adequate assessment of our friendship’s duration, but I’ll withhold my sarcasm for the moment out of respect for those around us,” she gleams at the other patrons sitting nearby, all smiling at our incessant back and forth banter. “But, for the record, I’m sarcastic because throat punching is frowned upon,” she pauses to blow across her nails, eying me wickedly from behind her bent knuckles. “Keep that in mind when I tell you that holding my tongue physically pains me.”

I literally bust out laughing, almost snorting, my hand darting to my mouth to shield my lingering giggles as the esthetician makes her way towards us.

“Follow me, ladies,” she requests in her cockney British brogue, “Let’s get those feet soaking.”

“Mmmm, music to my ears,” Stacey drawls as we follow behind her. “Hey, be honest,” Stacey displays her perfectly manicured fingers, “…does this color make me look like a whore? If not, I have to pick another one.”

“Shut up,” I nudge her into the seat.

“Sweet heavenly Jesus,” she sighs on a whisper, submerging her feet in the miniature hot tub, leaning back in the massage chair, eyes closed. “My ideas are epic, aren’t they?”

“Almost always,” I tease, smiling at my best friend.

Screw you
, she mouths through a playful smirk, not bothering to open her eyes to look at me.

Laughing, I shake my head and reach for a magazine on the table.
Glamour UK
. My breath hitches on a painful sigh as I’m assailed with the memory of Alex’s stunning face gracing the cover not so long ago.
World’s Sexiest Man.
He’s so much more than that very accurate designation. The thought of just how much more burns through my system until it reaches the tips of my fingers, singeing them at my hold of the memory-eliciting nuisance. I quickly drop it, its unopened pages flung from my hold like unwanted filth.

I’d managed to get through most of the day so far without giving in to the pain he’s left in my heart, only to be reminded by something as innocent as a stupid magazine.
Well, I’m not perusing my nose through that particular one
, I grab another, sniffing back my heart’s warning of impending tears. Although it doesn’t matter what I do anyway, something always brings me back to him, leaving me reeling in the empty feeling that consumes me in his absence, as equally as he consumed me in his presence.

Time and distance is slowly chipping away at my heart, but more hurtfully is that he’s yet to reach out to me.
Thirteen long days
- and that fact is seeping into the breaking cracks, threatening to shatter me.
He needs time
…his parting words are like razors in my stomach. I swallow hard, desperate to wash them away. How much time does he need?

Isn’t this killing him as much as it’s killing me?
I purse my lips inwardly, rolling my shoulders to push off the sheath of fragility the thought of him has created. I need to be strong, no matter how much the words
I’m losing him
crash through my core.

Sitting up straight on a breath of composure, I flip through the pages of my second choice,
Hello
Magazine. I’m unfamiliar with many of the celebrities plastered throughout - not surprising, given it’s the UK edition - but it doesn’t matter. My aimless perusal is perfectly numbing as I catalogue their fashion choices and hairstyles, versus paying attention to who they are and what they’re doing.

I stop to admire an attractive woman’s hair, wondering if I need a change myself, before turning the page. My eyes widen, almost to the point of blurring as I take in Alex’s stunning face, my lips parting on an unwelcome gasp.

“What is it?” Stacey asks in alarm, pulled from her semi-conscious relaxation.

I can’t formulate a reply as my focus returns, absorbing the images. I’m completely tongue-tied, quickly flipping a glance at the issue date on the cover.
Current. No!
It can’t be
, I return to the inside pages, staring transfixed at Alex…and Julia.

Standing side by side at some sort of event, they look the epitome of the happy couple. Bile rises in my throat as I aimlessly turn the pages, the numerous pictures of them together returning my vision to a blur…Alex leaning into her, his arm wrapped around her waist as he whispers in her ear. Her smiling face cuts through me with a boomerang strike of anger. A combination of bone crushing hurt and rage that I can feel down to my toes.

“Aby? Is that Alex?” Stacey leans over, peering at the pages gripped in my trembling hands.

My mouth opens long before I manage to get the words out, “Alex…a-and Julia.” I can’t stop myself from staring at his perfect face leaned into her ear.

“What do you mean, Alex and
Julia
?” she mutters, tearing the magazine from my tight hold. “I don’t understand…these photos were taken in L.A.. He’s in L.A. with
her
?” she questions, shaking her head at the images as though looking for an answer that isn’t there.

I’m going to be sick.
The memories of his parting words lash me once more…
I’m going back alone, Aby
. He lied. He wasn’t going alone. He was going with
her
. ‘Alone’ translation: without
me
. My worst fear when he left coming to fruition, smacking me dead in the face through the superfluous pages of a celebrity tabloid - Alex has reunited with Julia.
I’ve lost him
. He needed
time
, a ‘break’ from
us
to work everything out…a break that was merely a prelude to the breaking of my heart.

“Aby?” she pulls me back to the present. “These pictures don’t mean anything…”

“Don’t they?” I barely whisper, numbness seeping in, my body fighting to quell the ache consuming me. I stare straight ahead, my focus turned off, realizing why he hasn’t called. His acting skills could never hide the truth from me. I would have heard it in his voice.
But, surely he would have known I could find out this way.

“God, Abs, I’m so sorry. I can only imagine how you’re feeling right now, but clearly you’re in shock.”

Turning to look into Stacey’s watchful eyes, I shrug my shoulders slightly, my act of bravado an epic failure as my eyes well with tears. “I always knew it was a strong possibility. I’m not in shock. It’s just…having it smack me in the face…” I trail off, unsure how to articulate my disdain at the moment for Alex’s very public life, despite my many months having become accustomed and acceptant to it. At this very moment, I
hate
that he’s a celebrity.

“Awe, babe,” she reaches over to squeeze my hands. “I assure you, you’re in shock. Otherwise, you’d be flipping right the fuck out. Or, maybe deep down you realize that you’re making assumptions - assumptions that aren’t worth making at the cost of the pain in your eyes right now.”

“A picture is worth a thousand words, Stacey.”

“Yeah, and there are times when all of those words are
whore
,” she jabs her finger in Julia’s face on the page. “But just because she’s a ratchet whore, doesn’t mean Alex…”

I look away, taking deep breaths through my nose to fight off angry, painful tears.

“Abs, listen to me. I know you’ve said you thought he’d go back to her, but let’s face it, that’s bullshit.
I
thought for sure that…well fuck…I don’t know what I thought anymore. Yes, I agree,
this
looks bad. But you can’t do this to yourself. Not without confirmation from Alex.”

“Should I wait by the phone for his call?” I huff through my arched jaw, taking my lip in my mouth, biting down and closing my eyes. “I’m sure as hell not reaching out to him, especially not now…” I cringe, thinking of the very many times I stared at his number on my phone, wanting so much to connect. It killed me every time. My heart’s slow painful death.

“Okay listen, this is what we’re going to do…I’m going to call Thomas and tell him that dinner tonight can’t happen, and you and I are going to get drunk. And I mean piss-eyed hammered. You can take out your anger, frustration - everything - on Captain Morgan, and within a few hours you’ll have snapped out of your shock and moved on to drunken rationale. It’s time for a ladies night, babe. You need it.”

“Stacey, don’t be crazy. You’re having dinner to meet your future in-laws. I’m pretty sure it would be highly frowned upon for you to cancel. As much as I’d love a ladies night, I could
never
let you skip out on Thomas for that. I’ll be fine.”

“Abs…”

“Stacey, no. It’s not happening. Go do your thing…meet your future family and show them how amazing you are. We can have our girls’ night another night. My broken heart’s not going anywhere.” She grimaces in concern and I feel a pang of guilt. She doesn’t need my pain right now. “Actually, I believe someone is due a bachelorette party,” I add, forcing a smile, trying like hell to hide my brokenness behind the mask of my inner actress.

“A bachelorette party, hmmm?” Stacey quips, successfully distracted for the moment, or at least pretending to be for my benefit. “Okay, Hun, tomorrow night. We’ll go out and have an impromptu shit-faced alcohol indulgence - which for the record is the natural progression through the seven steps of recovery from a broken heart. Although,
also
for the record, that heart of yours has no confirmation that it has actually been broken yet - just saying,” she shrugs. “But, I’m all for jumping on the tequila train on the pretense of a bachelorette party - whatever you want to call it. So, no ifs, and or buts about it, we’re going out. I think you need it. Deal?”

“Deal,” I nod, hiding the squeezing pain from my
absolutely
broken heart.

“YOU KNOW WHAT? This is bullshit,” I mumble to myself, pouring my fifth glass of wine.
I think it’s my fifth
. I’ve lost count. But I’m pretty sure the ratio of wine-in-glass versus spillage on countertop is a clear indication that I’ve had
way
too many. Well, that and the now empty bottle.

“Ah, fuck it. I’m drunk.
And,
I’m talking to myself. It doesn’t get any worse than this,” I raise my glass in salute to my drunken-ass, moving to stand from the island. Sadly, my struggle to maneuver in my inebriated state is reminiscent of a baby cow trying out its new legs.

What a thought to have at this moment…a baby cow.

“You know who else is a fucking cow?
Julia-fucking-Cox.”

No. Wait.
Alexander Tate is coming off particularly cow-ish at the moment. Him and his
sweet nothings
. “So fuck you too, Alexander The Great!” I raise my glass once more, spill-free despite the shaky gesture, since most of my attempted refill is pooled on the island counter.
What a waste
, I turn towards the wine that
should
be in my glass, the notion a metaphoric stab to my heart.
Such a pathetic waste
.

I mean, I knew we were over - I knew it deep down in my gut. “But,
come on
!” To have reunited with
her
so damn quickly? And to be so friggin’ cozy, you’d swear they’d never broken up?
What a whore. What an asshole.
“What a bunch of
whore-assholes
!”

I need to get them out of my head. Never think about them again. Somehow. I
have
to find away. Drowning my sorrows in Vino isn’t working.
But…
I tap my finger on my chin, pensively.
A drinking buddy…that might be just the trick
. Pursing my lips, I turn haphazardly towards the stairs, grabbing hold of the railing with a death grip, taking each step with measured movements. It feels like a walk on a tightrope, my eyes peeled to my wine glass as I attempt to keep its half empty contents inside. I’m not wasting another drop
.
I’ve wasted too much already
. I smile to myself, despite the painful analogy, successfully reaching the bottom and heading for the front door.

There’s a funny thing about patience and wine…One doesn’t work with the other. What does work, however, is knowledge of where your good neighbor hides a spare key when they take
forever
to answer the door. “Andrew? Are you here?” I question lightly, letting myself inside. “
Helloooo
? I’m looking for a drinking buddy…”

“Aby?”

My gaze darts in his direction. Emerging from the bathroom, he’s wearing nothing but…a towel. He’s wet. And naked. And wet.
Holy mother of pearl.

Devouring him in my drunken stupor, I can’t pull my gaze away - his smooth muscular chest, hint of abs and happy trail dusting along his lower tummy to creep below the fold of the towel down to a foreign place I
should
not
be imagining.
Oh. My. God.

“Abs, are you okay?” his jars me back to the present, my mind suddenly registering my lengthy, outright ogling.