Page 103 of Just The Way You Aren't

"Or maybe you're catastrophizing after one canceled plan." Abby bumps my shoulder with hers. "Give him a chance to make it up to you before you write the whole relationship off."

She's right, of course. This is just one disappointment, not a pattern. Not yet, anyway.

"You're still going to your family's, right?" Abby asks.

"Of course. My niece would never forgive me if I don’t show up." I resume my packing with less enthusiasm but determined practicality.

"Want me to ride up with you? I could take the bus back tomorrow."

I smile gratefully at the offer, but shake my head. "No, you've already agreed to pet-sit. Besides, the solo drive will give me time to think."

Thirty minutes later, my bag is packed, the pets have been given extra attention to assuage my guilt at leaving them, and I'm ready to go. As Abby walks me to the door, I glance back at the flowers on my kitchen table.

"Keep an eye on the floral assassination squad over there," I say, nodding toward my pets. "Tiny will eat anything, and Mingo thinks flower arrangements are just fancy cat toys."

"I'll defend the bouquet with my life," she promises,striking a mock bodyguard pose. "Or at least with a spray bottle.”

I force a smile. "Thanks, Abby."

I head down to my car, trying not to feel as though the rug has just been pulled out from under my feet. I had been looking forward to this visit with my family for weeks, long before Damien was in the picture. I’m still looking forward to seeing everyone, with or without him. Except making the trip with him felt like a turning point for us, for our relationship.

It still is a turning point. He just went a different way. Not that I blame him; his business places important demands on his time. It’s not like I don’t know that or respect it. I do. I’m just… disappointed. And yeah, I’m hurt.

The weekend stretches before me—still filled with family and celebration, but without the man I'd been so excited to introduce to my world.

I get into my car and pull out onto the street. Then I turn on some music to drown out the quiet voice in my head, wondering if this is what my future with Damien will always be like: beautiful flowers, heartfelt apologies, and empty spaces where he should be.

CHAPTER 33

DAMIEN

Icheck my phone for the fifth time in twenty minutes. Nothing from Willow. No text saying she'd arrived safely at her parents' place in the Catskills. No missed call. Nothing.

I shouldn't be surprised. Our last conversation ended hours ago with me canceling our weekend plans at the last minute. But I can't help the concern that gnaws at me, wondering if she's made the drive safely.

"Mr. Langley? Are you with us?"

I snap my attention back to the conference room, where Steven Walt, his sister Darlene, and their uncle, Ben, are watching me expectantly. The expansive windows behind them frame Florida's palm trees and blue skies, a jarring contrast to the tense atmosphere inside.

"Of course." I force myself to focus on the schematics spread across the table. "Of course. You were discussing the construction timeline options?"

Alfred Rothchild, seated to my right, shoots me a venomous look. He's been doing this since we boarded theLangley private jet this morning—sighing dramatically, making snide comments just below his breath, attempting to position himself as the real decision-maker. The man is insufferable under normal circumstances. Today, he's truly outdoing himself.

"We weren't discussing timeline options," Ben Walt says, his expression cooling. "We were talking about the competing cost analysis for the studio foundation work."

Right. The competitor. The entire reason I'm sitting in Guardian Productions' Florida headquarters instead of driving to the Catskills with Willow. Supposedly, some rival development firm has undercut our bid by fifteen percent, promising faster completion times with the same quality standards.

"I'm aware of their proposal," I say smoothly, as if I hadn't just been mentally elsewhere. "And it's not feasible. No reputable firm can deliver those specifications at that price point without cutting corners."

"Yet they've provided compelling documentation suggesting otherwise," Steven counters, studying me carefully. "Documentation that you've barely glanced at since arriving, despite flying all the way down here on a Saturday."

Alfred leans forward, a shark scenting blood. "What Mr. Langley means is that Langley Enterprises stands by our original assessment. We've factored in all possible efficiencies without compromising quality."

As if I need Alfred fucking Rothchild to translate for me. I level a cold stare at him. "I believe I can speak for myself."

An uncomfortable silence settles over the room.

Darlene Walt, Guardian's CFO and Steven's sister, clears her throat. "Perhaps we should take a short break. It's been a long morning."

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