After the Kiss
Page 36
Her boss was right.
The Dating, Love, and Sex department rarely tackled the messy bits. Sure, they talked about how to patch up squabbles, how to get the right leverage in reverse-cowgirl position, and whether men prefer women to wear lip gloss or lipstick. But they didn’t take on the hard stuff.
They didn’t touch the end of relationships. After being through one, Julie understood why.
“Writing about it might help you,” Camille said thoughtfully. “I understand it’s uncomfortably personal, but you could omit names, and of course keep the most sacred moments to yourself. But other women are out there hurting from breakups. Write this story for them.”
Julie opened her notebook without realizing it, and tapped her pen thoughtfully against her knee. “A breakup article. I could do that.”
Camille smiled sadly. “Yes, you can. I hate that you can.”
Julie closed the book without writing a single note. She needed to think.
Could she really do this?
Yes. She could, and she should. She wanted to tell the truth. And the truth about what had happened between her and Mitchell—the real truth—wasn’t about the facade under which it had started. It was about what happened after all that. About the slow, unnerving process of falling in love, and the ripping moments when that love was taken away.
Julie gave Camille a nod and a promise to have notes delivered by the end of the day tomorrow.
With each step back to her office, she felt her writer’s block begin to lift. Julie could write this story. She owed it to herself. She owed it to her readers.
And most of all, she owed it to Mitchell.
Chapter Nineteen
“Mr. Forbes, I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s a woman here to see you.”
Mitchell almost laughed into the phone. Once upon a time, a woman wanting to see him had been a good thing. But that was before his home had been invaded by a manipulative, social-climbing heartbreaker and an endless bevy of nosy journalists.
“Get rid of her, Christian,” Mitchell said to his building’s doorman. “I’m not expecting anyone.”
“But she says she knows you, sir.”
Mitchell pushed his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets in exasperation. “I’m sure she said that. But so have a dozen other women who’ve been by here wanting an exclusive.”
Christian’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t think this one’s a reporter. She’s quieter, you know?”
Mitchell raised an eyebrow. Couldn’t be Julie. There was nothing quiet about her.
Curiosity got the best of him. “What’s her name?”
“Grace Brighton. Says you work with her ex-boyfriend?”
That had Mitchell pausing. Ex-boyfriend? Greg and Grace’s relationship predated cellphones. They were over?
And he noticed that Grace had failed to mention their other connection. Julie.
What the hell was she doing here? They’d only ever made a little small talk. And he highly doubted Julie had sent anyone to plead her case. It had been almost three weeks, and he hadn’t heard from her. Not a text, not an email, not a missed call.
They were over.
Exactly what he wanted.
And yet . . .
“Oh, what the hell. Send her up.”
Mitchell tugged at his tie and threw it over the back of the bar stool as he grabbed a beer from the fridge. It had been his sad routine for the past week: wake up, run, work, come home, work some more, maybe watch a game he no longer cared about.
He was bored. And maybe a little wounded. He washed away that last emotion with a swallow of beer.
He’d never thought of himself as someone who needed a woman. Hell, when he and Evelyn were together, those rare “alone” nights had been precious. But with Julie . . . with Julie it had been different. Calling her after work to grab a glass of wine or a beer had been second nature. Watching a movie with her legs slung over his lap had been relaxing. Shit, even takeout tasted better when they’d eaten together.
And she was probably scribbling notes about it every time you took a piss.
To think that he’d been actually daydreaming about what style of ring would suit her best. The thought of his own foolish naïveté made him sick.
There was a polite knock at his door, and Mitchell yanked it open with more force than necessary. If Grace had come to plead her trampy friend’s case, he’d let her know exactly where she could shove her precious magazine.
His self-righteous anger faded slightly at the sight of Grace. “Are you okay?”
The question spilled from his lips as he pulled her inside. He’d never seen Grace Brighton look anything but perfectly put together. But this Grace looked like she’d been rummaging around for hot dog remnants in the garbage cans of Central Park.
“I know,” she said, running a hand through hair that hadn’t seen shampoo in days. “I look like hell.”
Pretty much. “Nah, you just look . . . not yourself.”
Her smile was probably meant to reassure him, but the grimace only made her look more like the Joker. “Got any more of those?” she asked, jerking her chin at the beer bottle in his hand.
He hesitated for a moment but then realized he couldn’t exactly throw her out in her present condition. And a little companionship wouldn’t kill him. He hadn’t spoken to anyone except colleagues in the past couple of weeks, and then it had only been about bonds and money.
Colin had been nervously circling around him like a whipped dog, forever dropping off gourmet sandwiches and fancy coffees as peace offerings. He wasn’t a bad guy, just an incredibly stupid one, with wretched taste in women.
Still, the fact that he’d dumped Kelli after learning she’d sold their pillow talk to Allen Carsons spoke highly of him. And Colin had pulled the necessary strings over at the Tribune to get the second part of Carsons’s ridiculous story killed before publication.
All in all, Colin was shaping up to be a better friend than Mitchell would have guessed.
Didn’t mean Mitchell was going to put a stop to the free coffees and lunches, though.
Mitchell grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped the cap, and handed it to Grace. She took a healthy swallow. And then another. Then another.
She let out the tiniest of burps before grinning like a madwoman at the bottle. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve had a beer? With Greg, I only ever drank chardonnay.”
Oh, boy.
“Hey, Grace, can I call someone for you?”
She gave a maniacal little laugh and settled uninvited onto one of his bar stools. “Sure, sure. Call Greg. I’m sure he has nothing else going on. Oh, wait! That’s not right. He’s probably busy boning that slutty coworker of yours.”
Mitchell tipped the bottle to his lips. Ah. So that’s how it was.
Not that he was surprised. Greg’s “friendships” with the females of the office were well known. He only wished they were rumors instead of fact.
But the proof was in Grace’s tangled hair and mismatched shoes. He felt a surge of sympathy. “You guys broke up, huh?”
She gave a wave of her hand. “Broke up . . . exploded. Whatever you want to call ten f**king years down the drain. Apparently I don’t excite him anymore. Guess I should have been spending my time figuring out how to hoist my br**sts up to my eyebrows instead of doing his damned laundry.”
Mitchell fiddled with the label on his beer bottle. This was definitely not his territory. And surely she had other girlfriends she could man-bash with. He was betting she and Julie could have a field day.
“Well, Greg’s loss,” he said finally, meaning it. Grace Brighton was a classy broad. He couldn’t see her shacking up with some guy for the sake of a story.
“Yeah, thanks,” she said in a small voice. “Anyway, that’s not why I’m here.”
Mitchell straightened, his body going on high alert. He knew where this was going. “I don’t want to talk about her. Not with you. Not with anyone.”
Grace sighed. “I know. I know. And I can’t say I blame you. I should have stopped the stupid undercover-girlfriend idea before it even started. But you have to know, you meant something to her.”
The Dating, Love, and Sex department rarely tackled the messy bits. Sure, they talked about how to patch up squabbles, how to get the right leverage in reverse-cowgirl position, and whether men prefer women to wear lip gloss or lipstick. But they didn’t take on the hard stuff.
They didn’t touch the end of relationships. After being through one, Julie understood why.
“Writing about it might help you,” Camille said thoughtfully. “I understand it’s uncomfortably personal, but you could omit names, and of course keep the most sacred moments to yourself. But other women are out there hurting from breakups. Write this story for them.”
Julie opened her notebook without realizing it, and tapped her pen thoughtfully against her knee. “A breakup article. I could do that.”
Camille smiled sadly. “Yes, you can. I hate that you can.”
Julie closed the book without writing a single note. She needed to think.
Could she really do this?
Yes. She could, and she should. She wanted to tell the truth. And the truth about what had happened between her and Mitchell—the real truth—wasn’t about the facade under which it had started. It was about what happened after all that. About the slow, unnerving process of falling in love, and the ripping moments when that love was taken away.
Julie gave Camille a nod and a promise to have notes delivered by the end of the day tomorrow.
With each step back to her office, she felt her writer’s block begin to lift. Julie could write this story. She owed it to herself. She owed it to her readers.
And most of all, she owed it to Mitchell.
Chapter Nineteen
“Mr. Forbes, I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s a woman here to see you.”
Mitchell almost laughed into the phone. Once upon a time, a woman wanting to see him had been a good thing. But that was before his home had been invaded by a manipulative, social-climbing heartbreaker and an endless bevy of nosy journalists.
“Get rid of her, Christian,” Mitchell said to his building’s doorman. “I’m not expecting anyone.”
“But she says she knows you, sir.”
Mitchell pushed his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets in exasperation. “I’m sure she said that. But so have a dozen other women who’ve been by here wanting an exclusive.”
Christian’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t think this one’s a reporter. She’s quieter, you know?”
Mitchell raised an eyebrow. Couldn’t be Julie. There was nothing quiet about her.
Curiosity got the best of him. “What’s her name?”
“Grace Brighton. Says you work with her ex-boyfriend?”
That had Mitchell pausing. Ex-boyfriend? Greg and Grace’s relationship predated cellphones. They were over?
And he noticed that Grace had failed to mention their other connection. Julie.
What the hell was she doing here? They’d only ever made a little small talk. And he highly doubted Julie had sent anyone to plead her case. It had been almost three weeks, and he hadn’t heard from her. Not a text, not an email, not a missed call.
They were over.
Exactly what he wanted.
And yet . . .
“Oh, what the hell. Send her up.”
Mitchell tugged at his tie and threw it over the back of the bar stool as he grabbed a beer from the fridge. It had been his sad routine for the past week: wake up, run, work, come home, work some more, maybe watch a game he no longer cared about.
He was bored. And maybe a little wounded. He washed away that last emotion with a swallow of beer.
He’d never thought of himself as someone who needed a woman. Hell, when he and Evelyn were together, those rare “alone” nights had been precious. But with Julie . . . with Julie it had been different. Calling her after work to grab a glass of wine or a beer had been second nature. Watching a movie with her legs slung over his lap had been relaxing. Shit, even takeout tasted better when they’d eaten together.
And she was probably scribbling notes about it every time you took a piss.
To think that he’d been actually daydreaming about what style of ring would suit her best. The thought of his own foolish naïveté made him sick.
There was a polite knock at his door, and Mitchell yanked it open with more force than necessary. If Grace had come to plead her trampy friend’s case, he’d let her know exactly where she could shove her precious magazine.
His self-righteous anger faded slightly at the sight of Grace. “Are you okay?”
The question spilled from his lips as he pulled her inside. He’d never seen Grace Brighton look anything but perfectly put together. But this Grace looked like she’d been rummaging around for hot dog remnants in the garbage cans of Central Park.
“I know,” she said, running a hand through hair that hadn’t seen shampoo in days. “I look like hell.”
Pretty much. “Nah, you just look . . . not yourself.”
Her smile was probably meant to reassure him, but the grimace only made her look more like the Joker. “Got any more of those?” she asked, jerking her chin at the beer bottle in his hand.
He hesitated for a moment but then realized he couldn’t exactly throw her out in her present condition. And a little companionship wouldn’t kill him. He hadn’t spoken to anyone except colleagues in the past couple of weeks, and then it had only been about bonds and money.
Colin had been nervously circling around him like a whipped dog, forever dropping off gourmet sandwiches and fancy coffees as peace offerings. He wasn’t a bad guy, just an incredibly stupid one, with wretched taste in women.
Still, the fact that he’d dumped Kelli after learning she’d sold their pillow talk to Allen Carsons spoke highly of him. And Colin had pulled the necessary strings over at the Tribune to get the second part of Carsons’s ridiculous story killed before publication.
All in all, Colin was shaping up to be a better friend than Mitchell would have guessed.
Didn’t mean Mitchell was going to put a stop to the free coffees and lunches, though.
Mitchell grabbed a beer from the fridge, popped the cap, and handed it to Grace. She took a healthy swallow. And then another. Then another.
She let out the tiniest of burps before grinning like a madwoman at the bottle. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve had a beer? With Greg, I only ever drank chardonnay.”
Oh, boy.
“Hey, Grace, can I call someone for you?”
She gave a maniacal little laugh and settled uninvited onto one of his bar stools. “Sure, sure. Call Greg. I’m sure he has nothing else going on. Oh, wait! That’s not right. He’s probably busy boning that slutty coworker of yours.”
Mitchell tipped the bottle to his lips. Ah. So that’s how it was.
Not that he was surprised. Greg’s “friendships” with the females of the office were well known. He only wished they were rumors instead of fact.
But the proof was in Grace’s tangled hair and mismatched shoes. He felt a surge of sympathy. “You guys broke up, huh?”
She gave a wave of her hand. “Broke up . . . exploded. Whatever you want to call ten f**king years down the drain. Apparently I don’t excite him anymore. Guess I should have been spending my time figuring out how to hoist my br**sts up to my eyebrows instead of doing his damned laundry.”
Mitchell fiddled with the label on his beer bottle. This was definitely not his territory. And surely she had other girlfriends she could man-bash with. He was betting she and Julie could have a field day.
“Well, Greg’s loss,” he said finally, meaning it. Grace Brighton was a classy broad. He couldn’t see her shacking up with some guy for the sake of a story.
“Yeah, thanks,” she said in a small voice. “Anyway, that’s not why I’m here.”
Mitchell straightened, his body going on high alert. He knew where this was going. “I don’t want to talk about her. Not with you. Not with anyone.”
Grace sighed. “I know. I know. And I can’t say I blame you. I should have stopped the stupid undercover-girlfriend idea before it even started. But you have to know, you meant something to her.”
