Page 55 of At First Smile
Second, is the reputation resurrection theory. Rowan said he punched someone, but failed to share his victim was Landon Phillips, Stanley Cup MVP, NHL Man of the Year, and one ofPeople’s sexiest people two years in a row.
“You don’t really believe that, do you?” JoJo places a warm palm on my shoulder.
I jab at the elevator’s Up button. “I…” Something twists in my belly. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Itdoesmatter.”
“It was just one night.”
“It sounded like so much more than that to me. You opened yourself up to him and even if he didn’t tell you everything, it seems like he opened up to you too.”
I press my pink-tipped nails into my palms and hope the pain holds the tears at bay. “I wasn’t what I thought I was”—I clear my throat— “becoming to him.”
“Do you want me to go steal you some cake? We can eat our feelings and online shop in your office?”
Stepping onto the elevator, I shake my head. “I’ll pass. I’ve hit my emotional eating quota for the week.” Pushing the button for my floor, I offer a small smile. “It’sreallyfine, JoJo. I’m over this.”
“Are you?” Her head tilts.
“I will be,” I say as the doors shuts.
Back in my office,I lose myself in work. Hours spent drowning in emails and reports is far more constructive than cake. Though my stomach’s grumble while I review the MVP Foundation’s event information makes me regret my cake-free office.
“Pen, I need you!” Devon, our department secretary, whines dramatically from the reception area where he sits outside my office.
Grabbing a granola bar from the desk’s top drawer, I laugh-shout back. “What?”
Over the last three years I’ve memorized Devon’s various whines. This is his classic “it’s not an actual emergency but a tiny blip in the day that annoys me” whine. “I lost the business card for the vendor that came by Thursday. I thought his card was on my desk.”
“Which Thursday?”
“Two weeks ago.” His tone is sheepish.
“The puppet show or Disney character performer guy?”
There’s a long pause before he replies, “Both.”
“On it.” Taking my phone from my purse, I pull up my camera roll.
It’s a force of habit to take a picture of all business cards for easy visual access. Most of these get sent to my work email and stored in a file, but this was taken before I left for New York, so it remains in my personal cell.
As I scroll past my recent photos, my heart aches with the pictures from Michigan. I’ve not looked at them since Rowan took them. I stop scrolling as a video pops up on the screen. Rowan had taken it at the pool at the waterfall’s base.
In it, a tiny puppy jumps and barks at Cane Austen’s ball tip. I swipe the cane left and right, allowing the little guy to play. My head is thrown back in laughter as the dog takes the tip into their mouth and tries to pull it away.
“God, she’s beautiful.” A low timbre, that I know instantly is Rowan, murmurs on the video.
The rumbly Irish lilt wakes up the butterflies in my stomach, the ones that have been asleep or sulking since Saturday.
“That she is.” A raspy female voice almost coos on the video. “Is she your girl?”
After a long pause, Rowans says, “No.” His tone is sad and full of longing.
“But you want her to be.” The woman’s tease is reminiscent of a taunting child.
Rowan doesn’t say anything. The puppy’s bark echoes. In the video, I look up, my gaze dropping to the camera – on Rowan— and a large grin widens on my face.
Watching the video, the memory washes over me. Despite being several feet away, his eyes shaded by the brim of his hat, I could feel his smiling gaze on me.
