Page 2 of Provoked

“Your grace,” Timms, the elderly butler, quavered from the hallway. “You have a guest.”

The duke appeared lost in another world for several long seconds before straightening into his usual ramrod stiff posture. “Thank you, Timms. I’ll be down momentarily.”

The butler bowed and shuffled back down the hallway. Moments later, the Duke descended the curved stairs of one of the most elegant townhouses in London, cursing under his breath when he spotted the telltale auburn tresses from above. His annoyance was impossible to miss when he spat out, “Margot, what are you doing here?”

Sitting up abruptly, I frown down at my phone that I’ve been using to read the latest from my second favorite author. My BFF Rose is my absolute number one, naturally. Always will be. But I do love a good Regency romance. Or I did. Did the author have to go and name the woman about to steal the dukethat? I’m not sure I want to finish it now.

Before I head into my bedroom to change, I slip down to the lobby of the apartment building to check my mail for the last time. Everything after today will be forwarded. Huh, a letter from Justin. It’s not unusually thick, just the typical business envelope with my name and address typed out neatly. I sigh and stuff it into my purse to read later. I’m already less than enthused about my evening plans. Having Justin’s lecturing voice echoing in my head isn’t going to help anything.

2

My unfocused gaze is blindly trained on my date across the small table in the fake Irish pub. A man who is blissfully unaware that I haven’t heard a word he’s said in the last ten minutes. Or maybe he doesn’t care. He hasn’t stopped talking, so perhaps he’s just excited to have any kind of audience. He’s already told me about his divorce and his new cheap apartment and how he’s hoping to get laid a lot now that he’s single because the wife stopped letting him get any with her a long time ago.

I assume he told me all this knowing that I wouldn’t be offering either. Or why would he tip his hand like that? Never going to happen anyway.

But I am a little sad staring at Steve’s slightly pudgy face. His dating profile said he was twenty-eight, but the numbers in his story don’t add up. He’s at least thirty-two. That’s not what has me depressed though. I’d already decided before accepting his dinner invitation that this would be my last date ever.When I told my best friend Rose that over the phone, there was a long pause. Followed by, “Ing? What’s going on? Maybe you should come here for a visit. I feel like I’m missing something important.” Her voice was filled with concern, and I had to muster some airy-fairy reasons for her. She’s practically bursting, she’s so pregnant. Yes, she’s told me how many weeks, but I lost count and all I can say is this kid had better get here soon. In any event, she doesn’t need me cluttering up her house right now. I’ll go for a brief visit when I can spend some quality time with her and the baby.

Rose and I met in college when I was a freshman, and she was a sophomore. We bonded over our shared love for a particularly inappropriate man in our lives. In her case, it was her dad’s best friend, and she was cheerfully resigned to not getting a happily ever after with him until he found out her deepest, darkest secret. They had their ups and downs, but now they’re blissfully in love and starting in on the next chapter. I had held out a tiny bit of hope that if Rose could somehow pull it off, then maybe I could, too. Except that Justin’s and my relationship has never been as cordial as Rose and Aiden’s was prior to making it romantic.

So no, I’ve given things, and men like Steve, a chance and they’re not for me. I’m disappointed that this experiment is ending on such a lackluster note, though. Not even anything funny I can relay to Rose. Not yet anyway. And the food is kind of bland and uninteresting. I lethargically dip one last soggy thick cut fry into ketchup, hoping that will improve the flavor. I’m not sure why I’m even here, really. Other than I’m finishing out my commitment to myself to try dating for six months. Thank God it’s over, is all I can say.

I’ve accepted that I’m always going to be in love with Justin and that Justin isn’t happening. Since my attempts to meet someone new to take my mind off of him have failed miserably, I’m giving up. So when I turn twenty-five next week, I’ll still bea virgin (assuming we’re not counting electronic boyfriends here) and I expect to stay that way for the rest of my life. I will be part of the permanently single. An independent, creative woman making her way in the world. New York City hear me roar.

Except I’m in Taos and I’m moving to Montana. I thought New Mexico would offer me the artistic haven I’d been looking for, but it’s never felt quite right. Just as soon as I saw the hills of the Gallatin National Forest, something in me sat up straight and took notice. Maybe I’ll even learn to ride a horse. When I feel brave enough. Someday.

I’m not crazy. I’m not asking Justin to release any of my trust fund early to buy a few thousand acres. I’m renting a small cottage on the ranch of one of my favorite customer’s sons. He’s happily married, so you can let that one go. And don’t sigh with disappointment like Rose did, please. That girl thinks everything is an opening to one of her steamy romances. I know she’s a little hurt that I’m not moving right next door, but in all honesty (and I could never tell her this) I’m not ready to face the full extent of her happiness on a daily basis. Not when my life feels so untethered. Look at that, I’m making horse references all ready! Or maybe that one was for hot air balloons? I’m not sure.

Anyway, Rose got her older man, the one she thought was out of reach and while I’m blissfully happy for her, seeing her with Aiden is a constant reminder that my story didn’t end the same way. Not that I ever expected it to. But when she urged me to try online dating as a way to move on with my life, I felt a little resentful because she’s never dated anyone but her husband and it’s not like they really did that either. I think they sort of fell into bed once they got over the awkwardness of the age gap. Lucky girl. I’m thrilled for her, of course I am. But I think I need to find new dreams to pursue first. Ones that don’t involve romance or dating.

Steve finally takes a pause to sip his diet soda, and I seize my chance. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got an early flight in the morning. Do you mind if I call for the check to pay my half?”

He blinks at me with confusion shining from his pale blue eyes. “But… I thought we had a connection!”

“Um no. Sorry.” How he could think that when I literally haven’t been able to say a word without interrupting after, “It’s nice to meet you,” is beyond me. But he’s starting to look angry, so I scoot my chair back and grab my purse. I’ll just settle my half of the bill with the hostess at the front. She’s cast enough sympathetic glances my way for me to know she’ll understand.

When I finally step outside the restaurant and into the bright sunshine with no sign of Steve behind me, I breathe a sigh of relief. Free of those social obligations at last. I don’t know how many dates I’ve been on in the last six months. I can tell you none of them proceeded to date number three and all of them were slightly sad men. A few were a little desperate, a few reeling from divorces or unexpected layoffs, all of them not really seeing me, Ingrid, or even wanting to as far as I could tell. They just wanted to talk to someone that felt obligated to listen and maybe a sympathy fuck. Not that I was offering. And not that I’m old-fashioned, but only two of them insisted on paying the bill. One even expected me to pay all of it. Okay, maybe I’m a little old-fashioned. Or at least, I’d like a man to feel that spending time with me is a privilege. Is that really too much to ask?

I told a small fib. My flight isn’t for another full day. I’ve learned a lot about politely lying to get out of an evening’s drudgery in the last six months. I’m not convinced that’s a skill I want to cultivate. I walk back through the busy part of the city to the small apartment I’ve been renting, dodging tourists carrying things painted with chilies as I go. I wonder if Justin has my belongings on a truck yet? I’m pretty sure my parents never owned anything with red and green chilies on it, butmaybe I just don’t remember. It’s going to be like a sad version of Christmas unpacking everything. I miss my parents, of course, but they were always traveling and only took me with them during the summer, so I was used to talking over my daily troubles with the housekeeper or the gardener.

I think that’s part of where Justin and I went wrong when he inherited me. He never understood that I was already essentially living independently at seventeen and didn’t need someone reminding me to do my homework. Probably every seventeen-year-old out there says that, but in my case, it was true. Justin and I only ever seemed to get along when we weren’t talking. And get your mind out of the gutter because we weren’t doing any of that, either. Not that I would have minded, but he’s the type of straight and narrow guy that would probably shoot himself in outraged horror if he even accidentally looked funny at an underage girl. In any event, he didn’t. Ever. Much to my disappointment.

What the hell does Margot want?I file that thought away for later as I firmly remove her hand from my body. Her cloying scent wafts to my nose and I quickly drop her hand.

“I don’t have time to talk now, Margot. I’m already late for an appointment. Why don’t you spell it all out in an email?”An email I can ignore without a second thought, I think to myself. Clearly Margot is on the same wavelength because there’s an angry glint in her eye as she attempts a pout that’s way too young for her and shrugs before turning back to the elevator that brought her up. I catch just a glimpse of her real expression behind the mask (calculating) as the doors shut.

I’m meeting my old roommate Mark for drinks latertonight. We go back far enough that he won’t hesitate to call me on shit and he was never a fan of hers. Can’t say as I ever really saw that much in her, either. We served each other mutually for having someone to go to functions and the occasional convenient scratch-an-itch fuck, but I’d hardly call our time together memorable. For a brief time, I thought she might be the feminine influence Ingrid needed, but not surprisingly, Margot isn’t exactly what anyone would call maternal. She seemed to get downright bitchy any time I even brought up Ingrid’s name, so eventually I found it easier to go stag to events or quite frankly not go at all.

My career is at a point where I can write the ticket and pick and choose among the clients that line up. In fact, there’s a waiting list two years long to get on retainer. I could stop working tomorrow and still have plenty of money. That realization — that I didn’t have to go to cocktail parties anymore with or without a date is when I finally felt like I’d succeeded in my goals. I said goodbye — amicably, I thought — to Margot and indulged in my solitude while keeping tabs on Ingrid, who should have been back living in this penthouse after graduating.

But tracking Ingrid didn’t require leaving the apartment, so I mostly avoided people. Except when Mark dragged me out to play some silly new game he’d found hoping to invest in the next craze or Kate made me move my legs so she could vacuum under them. She’s immune to my glares, that woman. Which means she’s wasted as a housekeeper, but she tells me she has no interest in becoming a lawyer at her stage in life. And then she always adds that she’ll happily retire to the cottage in North Carolina that I’m going to buy her just as soon as I find a decent wife to take care of me. At which point I roll my eyes, and wonder if we’ll still be having this same conversation in twenty years.

I’m out of the house now, aren’t I? Only because the storageplace in New Jersey that has Ingrid’s things insists on an in-person signature. They must be one of the last places on the planet to not be online, but maybe this is how they keep customers paying. Nobody wants to navigate the potholes in the industrial district outside of the city. Easier to just keep making payments.

Sighing as I sign the thin yellow form with a flourish, I catch the eye roll of the middle-aged woman on the other side of the dingy formica counter. Her face says it all — big city fancy lawyer, probably has bodies in the storage unit. My lips twitch at the thought. But instead of saying anything, I fill in yet another form, releasing the contents to the moving company I’ve hired. The small unkempt office smells of stale cigarettes and copier toner. I frown again. I don’t like the idea of strange men meeting up with Ingrid in the middle of nowhere, even if they come with a sterling reputation and double background checks. I should be there to oversee the transfer.

I feel lighter with that sudden thought and engage the connection to my phone from the dash when I’m back in my car. I have flights and a rental car arranged before I’ve even left New Jersey. Imagining the fire in Ingrid’s brown eyes while her pale hair bristles with irritation has me smirking with satisfaction. This way, I’ll finally know she’s okay where she’s landed.

What is he doing here? My heart skips at least two beats when I spy his dark, perfectly styled hair straight ahead as I wait for the person in front of me to navigate the narrow aisle. Justin should be the last person ever to be on my flight from Denver to Boise. There are no direct flights for where I want to go, but I’m positive he doesn’t have clients this far west. Where the hell is he going? My stomach clenches with dread at the impending scene if Justin looks up from his laptop and recognizes me. We’ll both be thrown off the plane when he starts to yell. Unlike the rest of the passengers attempting to avoid conflict by arranging their inflight entertainment away from their neighbor’s knees, Justin will just keep shouting at me while everyone stares. I avert my gaze and tuck my elbows in. Anything to avoid catching his notice in any way as I sidle past his first-class row and head to the economy section. Again, what the hell is he doing here? And how long will I have to avoid picking up my luggage in baggage claim in order not to run into him? Boise can’t be that big of an airport, so there’s unlikely to be massive crowds of people to hide behind. And why don’t they have first-class baggage claim, anyway? Like in some other section of the airport, so the rich folk don’t have to worry about rubbing bags with the hoi polloi? Or vice versa.

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