Page 77 of VOGUEish

“Hmm.” Frankie glanced at her nails. “I’m not saying yes, but if I did, that would serve Isabella right to have to work with a woman she despises.”

“What makes you think she despises Annie?”

Frankie smirked. “I know Isabella. I know her look of hate.”

“Why are you hellbent on making Isabella’s life miserable?”

“I hold no hard feelings toward Isabella.” Frankie lowered her glasses to look Chandler in the eyes. “But I did ask a favor of her years ago, and she denied my wish. It’s time she learns I always get the last word in a matter. Always.”

Were all women that dogged when it came to settling a score?

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

A knock at Isabella’s connecting door flipped her stomach and set her heart to runway strutting in her chest. Chandler. Finally. Good or bad, they needed to talk. He owed her an explanation, and she owed him a heads-up about her blog post.

She took a quick glance in the mirror. She’d slipped into a basic summer dress—one she’d designed back in college—pulled her hair up in a clip, and removed all traces of makeup. The real her looked back at her. The awkward girl from yesteryear. The one who hadn’t known how to hide behind makeup and the perfect outfit. Isabella shrugged. “There’s not a damn thing wrong with you.” She donned an expression of aloofness and yanked open the door.

He lowered his hand and took a step back, indecision on his face.

“What do you want?” The words tumbled out in Isabella’s voice but had all the attitude of the Frankies of the world. A woman does what a woman does to save face.

He’d changed into a black T-shirt, linen shorts, and loafers. He held up his hands as if they were going to speak for him and then stuffed them in his pockets and shook his head. Isabella had no idea what the damn headshake meant. Unless it was at himself because he’d knocked on the wrong door.

Channeling Frankie once again, Isabella said, “Annie’s door is on the other side of your room.” She took a breath. “But you might want to wait, she’s taking a nap.” A hint of pain had slipped into her tone. Flats. She should have stopped while ahead with the attitude. Having nothing left to say, she slammed shut her door. Or at least she tried. Size Eleven thwarted her exit with his damn foot.

“I know whose door I knocked on.” His eyes were full of gritty determination, as was the set of his chin. “You and I need to talk…in private.”

His tone was resigned. He wasn’t here to tell her it was all a giant mistake. He was here to feed her some line. The realization stung. The kind of sting that happens when the technician doesn’t warn you before pulling off a strip during a Brazilian wax. She’d been such an idiot falling for this man.

“You’ve got five minutes.” She stomped to the minibar and took out a bottle of wine and twisted the cap off. Happy freaking Valentine’s Day to me.

Chandler stepped into the room and quietly shut the door. An action that shouted he was determined to be the calm to her storm, the adult to her childish behavior.

“This has to remain between us, but I’m not having an affair with Annie,” he said.

Relief crippled Isabella’s knees and soothed her heart.

At risk of sinking to the floor in a heap of happiness, she walked to the sliding glass door and stared at the palm trees, white sand, blue ocean. “If it wasn’t what it looked like, what was it? Why were you in her room?”

“I can’t say.” The words came out sandpaper rough, causing her to shiver. It was as if they were torn from the darkest recesses of his soul, scraped over burning coals, forced through rigid lips, and then spoken despite all attempts to keep them to himself.

“Can’t or won’t?” she pushed.

“Both.”

Not good enough. She needed answers. Ten years ago, she had made herself a promise to never again blindly trust. She would not break that promise today. “Then I see no reason for you to be here.”

He rubbed his temples with his index fingers. “I owe you an apology for placing you in the boat with Annie.”

Oh, my God. She was such a fool. He wasn’t even here about last night.

He had come to her room to apologize to his employee about his uncouth actions. No doubt afraid that if she recounted his actions to others, they would give more street cred to his public bully image. “According to Frankie, only lily-livers apologize. Are you a lily-liver? Or are you lying about being sorry?”

He narrowed his eyes. “I did what needed to be done according to what was best for Glamour, Inc. That’s my job.”

“What you’re saying is you’d do it again under the same circumstances. You’re saying your apology was a calculated lie.”

“I’m sorry I put you in the lifeboat with Annie before you and I had a chance to talk.”

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