Page 52 of Time Stops With You

My desk mate skates her chair closer to the wall, peering above it to speak to me. “No one knew what was going on at the time, but the truth’s coming out in all the divorce documents. Apparently, Carla’s husband said that the marriage was just an arrangement for him to have a baby so he could get his inheritance.”

An invisible hand crashes into my stomach and pinches a nerve.

“R-really?”

“Yup,” my co-worker says.

“But everyone saw the flowers he sent her on her last day of work. Why was he so sweet if it was just an arrangement?”

My colleague makes a dismissive hand gesture. “Well, duh. She wouldn’t marry him if he was mean to her.”

I’m struck by how much that simple response makes sense.

My co-worker continues, “Carla was always bragging about how much her husband loved her, but he was just putting on a show so he could get what he wanted.”

A vision of Ronan Cullen in my small kitchen blows through my mind.

“She actually fell for him.” My co-worker snorts. “The guy isn’t even that attractive, but she acted like he was a supermodel or something.”

Heat creeps up my cheeks. Cullenhadlooked sexy last night with his sleeves rolled up as he expertly created that pesto dish. And when he’d scrubbed the stubborn stains on my pans, his biceps flexed and contracted in a way that made the entire room an inferno.

“Carla got suckered.” My co-worker tuts. “Now that she’s given him a son, he doesn’t want anything to do with her.”

A dark memory that I’ve kicked to the back of my mind rises like a ghost. For a second, pain slices through my heart.

“W-what about Carla?” I ask with a tremble in my voice.

“She’s got money. Who cares about the rest?” My neighbor snickers.

“She doesn’t have her son,” my other co-worker argues. “She lost her husband and her baby. I don’t think money can make up for that.”

“I’d trade my son and my husband for money in a heartbeat.” My neighbor swings around to her computer. “I’d quit this job immediately and book a cruise.”

“A cruise sounds nice,” my other co-worker says.

Everyone starts talking about vacations while I hunch my head on the desk and quietly hyperventilate.

Memories from my past and my present twist into one tangled ball.

I can’t marry you, Nardi. You can’t give me what I want.

The pain worsens and I force myself to drink from the pink water bottle on my desk. After what happened when I first moved to America, I swore I’d never care about a man again.

And yet…

When I saw Cullen this morning, my first instinct was to fix my hair and clothes. I’d beenshyin front of him. So shy that it was hard to actually look him in the eye. I felt that if I did, he could see through my blank expression to the thoughts zooming underneath.

I should have worn my hair down instead of in a ponytail.

I shouldn’t have worn such a plain blouse.

I should have put more effort in my makeup instead of just throwing on lipstick and calling it a day.

“I must be insane,” I mumble, pushing myself straight up again. Am Ithatstarved for companionship that a man who—very plainly—has no real interest in me could make me self-conscious and bashful? Have I forgotten what a relationship almost cost me when I moved here?

“Davis!” My manager barks from his office.

I swivel around.

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