Page 9 of Unwrapped

“Like what? A CEO? I don’t have a trust fund like you, Izzy. I actual have to earn my money.”

“I know,” she coos. “But you’ve been working so much that we’ve barely seen each other. I made reservations at Di Pietro’s at seven. We can discuss our holiday plans…”

My cell pings with a text.

Rog:You gonna help a brotha out or what?

My eyes once again find the gray outside, pellets of icy sleet hit my window as the infamous Chicago winds pick up.

Me:I’m coming home for Christmas asshole.

Rog:It’s about time you showed that pretty boy face of yours. Safe travels.

“Have you listened to a word I’ve said?”

“I’ll see you at seven.” I reply curtly, hanging up on her. I hate breaking up with a woman. It’s uncomfortable as hell. I never promise any of them forever. I hardly promise much of anything. I’m not a complete dick in relationships, but my career has always come first, and I’ve always been honest about that. But somehow, I always end up here anyway—feeling empty and wishing for the beginning again. When everything and anything with someone is possible. And the sex is fresh and off the hook.

I press the button on my phone that calls Claudia directly at her desk.

“How can I help you, Sir?”

“Dammit, Claudia! You’ve worked for me for over five years and you’re the only stable woman in my life. Call me Darren. Please.”

“Okay, Darren. How may I assist you?”

“By booking me a flight to Medford, Oregon.”

“Oregon? Is there a meeting? I can have the company jet …”

“Not for work, Claudia. I’m going home for Christmas …facing the ghosts of Christmases past and all that.”

“Oh! Okay. When should I book it for?”

“Tomorrow. I’m leaving early for the holidays, but I’ll still be available on my cell. Oh! And Claudia?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Take off too. I’m giving you an extra week of paid vacation. Merry Christmas.”

“That’s very generous of you Sir—I mean, Darren.”

“You deserve it.”

“Thank you. Shall I book you a hired car as well?”

“No. I’ll rent something when I land. It’s quite a drive to Springdale.”

“When should I book the return flight?”

My eyes cut over to the calendar on my desk. “January fifth.”

“I’ll do my best. But the flights might be booked. If they are do you want me to hire a private jet?”

“They won’t be booked. No one flies into Medford. My destination is a nothing of a town in the middle of nowhere,” I reply dryly.

“Then why are you going?” She asks before she can stop herself.

“Because it’s past time I went home.”

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