“I saw you,” she panted. “I saw you.”
And she couldn’t stop staring at him right now. Good, sweet lord, but he was pretty. His hair was newly cut, his face clean shaven. His green eyes were bright in his face, lashes thick, and he looked delicious in that open-collared button-up shirt and the slouchy jeans he wore with them. He looked just as good as she remembered, and he was pretty darn tasty in those memories.
Rob rubbed the back of his neck and looked embarrassed. “You weren’t supposed to see me.”
“Yeah, well, you forget how tall I am in heels,” she reminded him. He laughed, and looked down at her bare feet, and she wiggled her toes. “I, um, took them off to run. I wanted to see if it was you.”
“Well, this is fucking embarrassing,” he said.
It was? Her heart broke a little at that statement. “What are you doing here in New York City?”
He stared at her for a long moment before answering. “Stalking you.”
“W-what?” She could hardly believe her ears. “Stalking me?” So that was him all those times she’d thought she’d spotted him? “Why are you stalking me?”
“I’m not really stalking,” he said, glancing around and lowering his voice. “Not in a creepy, illegal way. I just miss the goddamn hell out of you and thought maybe if I got to see you from afar, now and then, it’d hurt less. Still fucking hurts quite a bit, though.”
She stared.
“Say something.”
“I-I don’t know what to say, Rob.” He was here, watching her? He was hurting? Did that mean he missed her? Or was he just pissed about how things had turned out? For days—no, weeks—she’d thought of things she would say to him if she ever saw him again. Now he was right here, inches from her . . . and her mind went blank.
Just completely, utterly blank.
The look on his face was a little disappointed. His mouth curved. “I’ll leave you alone, sweetheart. I’m sorry if I scared you.”
He turned away and she grabbed at his shirt. “Wait!”
He stopped. Turned back around to her.
“I’m not scared,” she said in a small voice. She was, though. She was terrified, and her heart was beating like a rabbit’s. She wasn’t scared of him . . . just of being hurt again. Of getting her hopes up only to have them destroyed once more.
Rob waited. Looked down at her hand, still fisted in the fabric of his shirt.
Oh. She released it and flexed her hand, feeling a little stupid. She needed to say something. Anything. Get the conversation rolling. “I saw you. In a magazine.”
The look on his face grew shuttered. “Christ. I’m sorry.” He rubbed his neck again. “Whatever it was, it was probably lies. They make up all kinds of shit to sell papers. I haven’t touched another woman since I last saw you.”
Her eyes widened. “No, not like that! It was good.” Then, she peered at him. “Who did the tabloids say you’re dating?”
“Some D-list chick with big fake cans.” He shuddered. “Horrible. Not true at all. She’s just in one of the specials that we’ve been running lately.” He paused, and then corrected himself. “They’ve.”
“I saw information about the sale. Is it true? You sold The Man Channel?”
“All of it,” he agreed, his gaze intense on her. “Every affiliate, every video, every show, magazine, anything even remotely associated with Cannon Networks. It’s all gone.” He raised a hand and mimicked a firecracker exploding. “Poof. Done.”
He was smiling as he said it. What did that mean? Why did that give her such hope? “And . . . you gave away all the money?”
“I did. I didn’t want to keep any of it. Tainted money and all that. Seemed wrong to profit off of it.”
“Tainted?” Was he just saying words that she wanted to hear? She didn’t know, and was afraid to ask. Marjorie clutched her purse strap harder, as if it could hold up her weak knees. “Are you broke now?”
“Broke?” Rob’s eyes widened and he laughed. “No, I’m not broke. I had a lot of money socked into investments and real estate, too. I’m not as disgustingly rich as I was before, but I’m not broke by a long shot, sweetheart.”
That made her feel better. It was on the tip of her tongue to point out to him, as she had so many times before, that she wasn’t his “sweetheart.” But she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
An uncomfortable silence fell between them. After a moment, Rob added, “Before you think I’ve turned over a completely new leaf, I’m looking at other avenues now. Like a bingo channel. Maybe some sort of at-home gambling for the elderly.”
She couldn’t help it—she laughed. Of course he was still thinking things up.
The look on his face was a bit mischievous. “I can’t help it. I’m not the type to sit on my hands and count my money. I see opportunity and I go after it.”
“Some things never change,” she said, smiling.
The pleased look on his face died at once. “Can’t they change?” he asked in a lower voice. “Or are you forever fucked because of choices made before you met the right person?”
Was she the “right person” he was referring to? Marjorie’s lips were dry; she licked them and felt the urge to run away from this sudden frustration. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I’ve been working my ass off to become someone you could respect. Someone you could like. Someone you can be proud of. Most of all, someone you can see yourself with. After we talked, I realized everything you were saying was true. I went through all of my life not giving a shit what anyone thought of me, because no one had ever given a shit about me. ‘Think I’m a dick? Fine. I’ll be a dick.’ But then I realized after talking with you that you have to earn respect to get respect, and I haven’t been bothering to earn it. I made a living off of tits and ass and the frat boy mentality, and so of course a decent, nice girl like you won’t give me the time of day. Why should you? I’m peddling everything that you hate. I get that, now. I don’t know if I can ever backtrack enough to undo what I’ve created, but I’m damn sure going to try.” He shrugged. “Nobody ever made me want to become something better than I was until I met you.”
Marjorie was silent. She held her breath, even, afraid that if she inhaled, she’d miss a word of his confession.
Rob’s gaze locked on her face and he tilted his head, examining her with an expression of such longing that her heart ached. “I haven’t stopped loving you, you know. I always thought love at first sight was such bullshit, and then I met you. I’ve never felt like this about anyone. Ever. It’s not just lust. It’s wanting to hear your laugh and see your smile and wake up in the morning with you right next to me. I miss the hell out of you and I want you back, and if that means I have to donate every dollar I ever earn to charity and live in a box under a bridge to get your respect, then that’s what I’ll fucking do.”
“I . . . I . . .” She could think of nothing to say. Longing and fear were twined hand in hand, holding her back. What if she confessed that he was saying all the right things to her and she still loved him, and this was all another trick? What if it broke her all over again?
“I know,” he said softly. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I know it’s hard to believe anything I say, but I’m telling you the truth. And I understand. Here. Take this.” He put his hand in his wallet and pulled out a business card. “Got a pen?”
She reached into her purse, fished one out and held it out to him, still in shock.
He took it and wrote something down on the back. “This is my place here in the city. If you ever want to stop by and say hello, I’d love to have you. Anytime. Day or night. You call and I’ll be there.”
Marjorie nodded, wide-eyed, and took the card as he handed it to her.
Rob touched her cheek briefly, smiled, and walked away.
And Marjorie stood there on the street corner, barefoot and clutching a pen and business card as she watched the man she was terrified to love stroll back out of her life again.
***
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For two days, she stewed on what the card meant. She mapped his new address—Park Avenue—and stalked him via Google Maps. She might have taken a shortcut or two outside his building in the hopes of running into him so she didn’t have to make the first move.
And she stared at that magazine picture of him for hours before going to sleep.
Marjorie didn’t know what to do. She was inexperienced when it came to relationships, and felt completely out of her depth. She knew the easiest thing to do would be to call him, or go to his apartment and talk to him. Confess how she was feeling.
And . . . then what?
It was clear she couldn’t trust her own judgment. Anything he told her, she’d believe. So what did she do? Hire a private detective? That seemed . . . ridiculous. Right now it seemed like her options were: trust and hope for the best, or give up on him entirely and nurse the wound until it didn’t hurt.
What was sad was that seeing him again just emphasized how much she was completely, ridiculously, head-over-heels in love with the man, still. It took everything she had not to throw her arms around his neck and kiss the daylights out of him. To beg him to love her half as much as she loved him and to never, ever lie to her again.
But she still wasn’t sure if that was foolish of her. She needed opinions.
So at lunch on day three of her indecision, she met with Brontë and Audrey. It was really just to sit and enjoy talking together. Audrey was Logan’s assistant (or at least she was until she gave birth) and so she naturally spent a lot of time with Brontë. And as Brontë’s assistant, Marjorie was dragged along when lunches were planned, and they liked to go out on Fridays for pasta and to unwind. As usual, they talked about work, books, men, the wedding, and the weather. Marjorie was antsy and quiet as they chatted, waiting for their food.
When Audrey pulled out pictures of her latest ultrasound, Marjorie tore into a breadstick and then could hold back no longer. “Can people change?”
Both women turned to look at her, puzzled frowns on their faces.
“What do you mean?” Audrey asked.
“‘The universe is change,’” Brontë quoted. “‘Our life is what our thoughts make it.’”
Marjorie felt a stab of despair. She didn’t want a philosophical tidbit. She wanted real, honest-to-goodness advice. “Can people change,” she repeated, taking another nervous bite of her breadstick and chewing. It was dry and stuck to the roof of her mouth and she struggled to swallow. “Can the bad guy turn into the good guy? Can people say they’re going to change something in their life, do it, and really mean it? Or do you think they eventually fall back on their old ways?” Gosh, she was going to choke on this breadstick if she didn’t drink something soon. She gulped her water and grimaced. “I’m just wondering.”
“Are we . . . asking about someone in particular?” Audrey asked delicately.
Marjorie shook her head, cheeks burning. Gosh, she was such a pitiful liar, she really was. She was sure she was being incredibly obvious.
But Audrey took pity on her. She smiled broadly and rubbed a hand on her big belly again. “I absolutely believe people can change. Look at Reese.” At Marjorie’s questioning look, she chuckled. “Did you know Reese was a total man-whore back in the day? When I met him, he was in a hot-tub with an heiress, seducing her because he wanted a business deal with her father.”
“That sounds . . . awful.”
“Oh, I hated him,” Audrey said, a dreamy expression on her face that contradicted her words. “We got along like cats and dogs. But the more time we spent together, the more we found that we liked arguing with each other. It was fun. And then we liked spending time with each other even when we weren’t arguing. And then we just liked each other, full stop.” She shrugged and reached for the breadbasket. “We figured out pretty fast that we were miserable without each other, and I think I really started to believe that he liked me when I saw him turning down these gorgeous, svelte women to spend time with plain old me. Now, we’re as happy as can be.” She picked up a piece of bread and took a triumphant bite. “So, yes, I do think people can change. Sometimes they just need incentive . . . or a kick in the pants.”
Brontë giggled into her water glass.
Marjorie wasn’t entirely sure she was convinced. She toyed with the remainder of her dry breadstick. “Yes, but how could you trust him? Weren’t you scared of being hurt?”
“Everyone’s scared of being hurt,” Audrey said, ever practical. “But sometimes you have to take a leap of faith and put your trust in that person. I love Reese and I trust him not to hurt me, just like he trusts me not to hurt him.”
“But how do you know?” Marjorie pressed.
“You don’t,” Audrey said. “But sometimes the fear of living without that person is worse than the fear of what happens if you do choose to go after them. I was more afraid of what would happen if I didn’t take a chance on Reese.” She patted her distended belly again. “It’s worked out pretty well for us.”
Marjorie had to agree. She’d seen the way Reese looked at rounded, no-nonsense Audrey. He looked at her as if she’d hung the moon and stars, and she’d never seen him so much as glance at another woman. If Reese was a reformed man-whore, then didn’t Rob stand a chance to be someone different? And didn’t he deserve that chance? “I see.”
“If you think about it,” Brontë said softly, “Every relationship is a leap of faith. No matter what the past is, you’re counting on making a solid future with that person. It’s always a risk, no matter how big or how small. You just have to ask yourself if it’s worth the potential reward.”
A leap of faith, Marjorie mused as the waiter arrived with three bowls of steaming pasta. The women dug in to their food and the conversation was momentarily forgotten. Marjorie mulled it over as they ate and chatted about other things. Maybe Rob had taken a leap of faith by selling his business and dumping a massive chunk of his fortune into a charity in the hopes that Marjorie would see and approve? That she’d still be interested?
That she’d see the real him underneath all the tarnish and still want him?
Her hands shook and she had to put down her fork, composing herself.
Truth was, she could gloss it however she wanted, but she loved Rob and yearned to be with him. It was just that leap of faith that was so utterly terrifying.
Could she leap? It’d hurt if she fell flat on her face, but would it be worse to not leap at all? She thought of Agnes’s small apartment, filled with pictures and memories. She’d leapt six times before, and still had enough love—and hope—in her heart for a seventh try.
She had a lot to think about. Now to just find the courage to do what she needed to do.
Chapter Twenty-five
Marjorie couldn’t stop thinking about Rob that night. She gazed at his picture from the magazine, then picked up her phone and did a new Google search for his name. Nothing new popped up, except for Man Channel ratings. She clicked off her browser and stared up at her popcorn ceiling, frustrated.
What would it hurt to just drop by and say hello? There was a late-night coffee shop in his area. She could always just, you know, pretend she had a deadline and was working late and just drop by there and see if he was in the area.
Just to see. Just in case he was out and about.
With that thought in mind, she got out of bed and stripped down to her skin, then picked out her sexiest panties and bra. Just in case. Then she slid on her sexiest jeans and a cute top, and pulled her hair into a loose ponytail, and then spent ten minutes applying barely there makeup. Again, just in case. With that, she gave herself one last look in the mirror, crossed her fingers, put on her sparkly shoes that Rob had given her back on the island, and headed out into the streets of NYC, ignoring the hour.
Forty-five minutes later, she’d had a whipped hot cocoa from the coffee shop, had walked up and down the block twice, and no Rob. She wanted to walk up and down the block again, but she was starting to worry that someone would think
her a hooker this late at night in platform heels.
It was either go up and take a chance, or go home and stew for another day. She closed her eyes and bit her lip, thinking. Could she do this? With a small sigh, she tossed her cup into the nearest garbage can and headed to Rob’s building.
The doorman stopped her. “Can I help you, miss?”
“Oh.” She blinked repeatedly, the urge to run away clawing its way back to the forefront. “Um, Rob Cannon gave me a card and told me to come by anytime—”
“Name?”
Her courage failed her. “You know what? I can just go. It’s really late and I’m not sure—”
“Name?” the man emphasized, narrowing his eyes at her.
Meekly, she offered, “Marjorie Ivarsson. Really, though—”
He nodded at her. “Nice to meet you, Miss Ivarsson.” He opened the door for her and gestured that she should enter.
Oh. Huh. Okay. She hugged her purse against her side and continued into the building, the card with his address in her hand.
Rob apparently lived on the twenty-fifth floor, so she went to the elevator and pushed the button. To her horror, there was also an elevator attendant. Gosh, this was entirely too many people. Her courage failed her again.
“Going up, miss?”
“I-I-I—”
He leaned forward and glanced at the card in her hand. “Floor twenty five, miss?”
Eyes wide, she blinked and nodded.
He waited a minute, and then when she made no attempt to get into the elevator, gestured that she should get in. “Shall we?”
Right. She sucked in a deep breath. “I really should go home.”
The man waited, ever patient.
And despite her words, she found herself getting in the elevator. “Twenty-five, please,” she said in a squeaky voice, her hands shaking.
She was doing this. Dear lord, she was doing this.
Marjorie was silent as the elevator crept up, floor by excruciating floor. When the elevator finally dinged, she jumped.