Page 17 of The Press Secretary's Passion
“No!” I practically shout. “Go. You have to go.”
“Julia.”
“Please,” I sob. “Just go.”
There’s silence around me that I fill with my cries, but I know he’s still there, listening to me lose it. And then he says, “All right, honey. I’ll go… for now. But this isn’t over.”
But he’s wrong. We have to be over now.
I hear the rustle of fabric as he dresses, and then he says softly, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” And then he knocks softly on the door before I hear his boots move down the stairs.
I hold my breath until I hear the front door close, and then I give in to my tears and hysteria. I lie down on my fluffy lilac bathmat, and I cry myself to sleep, the whole time thinking I won’t hate myself tomorrow, because I hate myself now.
How could I have been so stupid?
“President’s Aide-de-Camp Injured in Hunting Accident”
Chapter 5
I was wrong
My eyes burn and my face is puffy. As I stare in the bathroom mirror, I realize I am not a pretty crier. In fact, I look like absolute shit.
There’s no way I can go out looking like this. Today, I’m going to have to do some serious self-care. I’m going to lock myself up and turn off my phone. I’ll order takeout and watch Lifetime movies, because I’m not sure I could handle the happily ever afters of Hallmark in my current mental state. I need a day of murderous nannies and psycho stalkers. Maybe I’ll dive into that tiger documentary everyone is talking about.
But first up is a hot shower. I turn the taps to steaming hot and climb in. My muscles ache from sleeping on a bathmat, and the hot water goes a long way to work them out. I finish rinsing off and then pat myself dry.
I pull on panties and a sports bra, because I’m going to be comfortable today, but I’m also not going to be photographed looking like a saggy-boobed psycho when I open the door for some Uber Eats. I pull on a worn soft pair of jeggings that are more legging than jeans and a couple layered tank tops in different colors. I top it all with my favorite NYU sweatshirt that’s been worn and washed so much that it’s soft and cozy.
I dry my hair and twist it up into a messy bun on top of my head and dab a light amount of makeup on my face. I hate this step, and it seems stupid, unless you’ve been caught looking like you’re seven hundred years old because your hair and makeup isn’t done, which I have, and that was not a fun box to check. So I layer a tinted moisturizer and powder with a soft, dewy pink blush. I swipe some dark brown mascara on my lashes, and then I cap the tube and toss it back in my bathroom drawer.
I make my way downstairs and pop a pod in my Keurig as it makes the noises it does while it heats up. I place a cup on the little tray all while dreaming about the hot liquid that will magically help me get my life in order, because, real talk, something has to change. I can’t keep going on like this. Maybe it’s time I throw in the towel and go back to New York. I could always let my mom marry me off to someone with powerful business connections to further the family business. It would suck, but maybe I wouldn’t feel so alone.
Or I could go to Texas and visit my friend Angie and her family. We were college roommates. She, Grace, and I stayed close, even though life took her to East Texas through a series of unfortunate life events, but she found her happy in the form of a retired professional football player and their daughter.
Then again, her husband Cody has the same slow southern drawl Ryan does, and I don’t know if I could handle the reminder of his sexy voice every day.
Life sucks.
I’m just about to lower the little lid to brew my coffee when there’s a knock at the front door. I let out a frustrated groan. I just wanted one day to get myself in order. Is that too much to ask?
Apparently, it is, because there’s another knock at the door. I let go of the little handle and make my way to the front door. I twist the lock and pull the door open and instantly regret I did.
“Mornin’, honey,” Ryan says as the corners of his mouth tip up in a smile.
“What do you want?”
“Aren’t you going to let me in?” he asks, and if his booted foot wasn’t blocking the door, I’d have already shoved it closed.
“Not if I can help it,” I mutter, making his smile widen.
“You don’t mean that,” he replies with a sexy rumble to his voice.
“If I don’t let you in, will you just break in later?”
“Probably.” He chuckles. “But this is business.”
“Rachel?” I ask.
