Ten minutes had passed where no one in the car had uttered a single word. For some reason, that was causing me to panic more than anything. What had I gotten myself into, really? If I couldn’t even manage to have a simple conversation with the guy, what the hell were we gonna do for the next twelve or twenty-four months? Stare at each other? Feeling sick, I pressed my palm against my stomach as if I could hold it all in—all the emotions, disappointments, forgotten dreams—but it was too late for that. I felt the first tear slide down my cheek, and even though I quickly tried to brush it away with the back of my hand because there was no reason for me to cry, I couldn’t stop all the others that followed. In just a few minutes, I was full-on silently crying, the tears a quiet stream I didn’t know how to stop.
Very aware that my mascara had probably made a mess of my face, I cried without making even a peep until the car came to a stop. When I opened my eyes and realized we were heading toward the wrong side of Central Park, I forgot about my tears and looked at Jack.
“I think…” I started, but the words died in my throat when I saw the expression on his face.
Oh shit! If I thought he had been angry when I dropped the ring, I was sorely mistaken. His brows snapped together as his eyes roamed my face and the tension in the car tripled.
I tried my best to wipe the evidence of my tears away without looking into a mirror. “This is the wrong side—”
“Take her to the apartment, please. I’ll get to the airport on my own,” Jack said to the driver. Then his expression closed up, his face blanking as he addressed me. “This was a mistake. We shouldn’t have done this.”
I was still staring at him in shock when he got out of the car, leaving his bride—AKA me—behind.
This was a mistake.
Words any girl who had gotten married only thirty minutes earlier would want to hear, right? No? Yeah, I didn’t think so either.
After all, I was Rose, and he was Jack. We were doomed from the very beginning with those names. You know… the Titanic and all that.
The number of times Jack Hawthorne smiled: zero.
Chapter Two
Jack
After spending days trying to ignore what I had done, I was finally back in New York and still nowhere near ready to face the clusterfuck I had created. Exiting the car the moment Raymond pulled up in front of my building, I walked past the doorman and stepped into the elevator. As I was checking my voicemails, I tried not to think about who and exactly what kind of situation would be waiting for me in my apartment.
Would I have to carry on a conversation with her? Answer more questions?
I certainly hoped not because talking to her was the last thing I wanted to do. Not if I was planning on sticking with my plan of keeping her at arm’s length.
The moment I stepped through the threshold, I knew she wasn’t there. Feeling both relieved and annoyed at the same time—relieved because I was alone just as I liked, annoyed because she wasn’t where she was supposed to be—I dumped my luggage in my bedroom and slowly walked through the apartment, just to make sure. Turning lights on and off, I checked every room, inspecting everything, looking for anything that was out of place, looking to see if someone had even been there after I left. When I reached the last room—the room she was supposed to be staying in—and found it just as it had been when I’d left for London, I rubbed my neck, hoping it would help with the headache I could feel coming on. Walking through the room, I stepped out onto the terrace to stare down at the busy city, wondering what I was supposed to do next.
What have I done?
A few weeks earlier…
As soon as I got the call from the lobby, I walked out of my office to wait for her in front of the elevators. My main goal was to intercept her before she could get to the meeting room where her remaining family members would join her in another thirty minutes. A few minutes later, the elevator doors slid open with a ping and Rose Coleson stepped out. Her brown hair was down in waves, her bangs long enough to almost cover her eyes. She had minimal makeup on, and she was wearing simple black jeans and an even a simpler white blouse. I waited as she walked over to the reception desk.
“Hello. How can I help you?” Deb, our receptionist, asked with a practiced smile on her face.
I heard Rose clear her throat and saw her fingers grip the edge of the front desk. “Hi. I’m here for the Coleson mee—”
Before she could finish her sentence, Deb noticed me waiting and, ignoring Rose completely, turned her gaze to me. “Mr. Hawthorne? Is there anything I can do for you? Your two-thirty appoint—”
“No, there isn’t.” Ignoring Deb’s surprised look, I focused on Rose Coleson. “Miss Coleson.” When she heard her name, she glanced at me over her shoulder and let go of the desk to face me. “Your meeting is with me,” I continued. “If you could follow me.”
Deb cut in as Rose took a step to follow me. “Mr. Hawthorne, I think you are mistaken. The Colesons’ meeti—”
“Thank you, Deb,” I interjected, not caring whether she took offense at my tone or not. “Miss Coleson,” I repeated, maybe a bit harsher than I’d intended. I needed to get this meeting done and move on with my day. “This way, please.”
After a quick glance at Deb, Rose moved closer. “Mr. Hawthorne? I think there might be a mistake here. I’m supposed to meet with Mr. Reeves—”
“I can assure you there are no mistakes. If you wouldn’t mind stepping into my office for some privacy, there are some things I’d like to go over with you.” I watched, impatiently, as she thought it over.
“I was told I was needed to sign something and then I could leave. I have another appointment in Brooklyn, so I can’t stay for too long.”
I gave her a curt nod.
After a brief hesitation and another look at our receptionist, she followed me toward my office in silence.
After a long walk, I opened the glass door for her to step in. I reminded Cynthia, my assistant, not to forward any calls, and then I waited until Rose was settled in her seat. Holding her bulky brown handbag on her lap, she gave me an expectant look as I took my own seat behind my desk.
“I thought the Colesons’ lawyer was Tim Reeves, at least the estate lawyer. Has there been a change?” she asked before I could utter a word.
“No, Miss Coleson. Tim is the one who drafted the will, and he is the one handling everything at the moment.”
“Then I’m still not sure—”
“I’m not an estate lawyer, but I did help the team who was handling your late father’s corporate cases on a few occasions last year. Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee, maybe? Or tea?”
“No, thank you. Like I said, I have another app—”
“Appointment you need to get to,” I finished for her. “I understand. That’s—”
“He was my uncle, by the way.”
“Excuse me?”
“You said father. Gary Coleson was my uncle, not father.”
I raised an eyebrow. This was something I already knew about, but apparently I was too distracted to remember every detail. “That’s right. I apologize.”