Page 72 of Long Time Coming

The deal is signed thirty minutes later, and a celebration is planned in Midtown. After a quick discussion with the team, the room clears, and we disperse to our offices.

Kendra shuts the door just before I yell, “Fuck.” Working my way to my desk, I drop the folio on top and move around to sit.

Crossing the room, she eases into a chair as if I might bite her head off. I wouldn’t. I only have myself to blame for that shit show performance. “You did fine, Tagger.”

“Fine? That’s the goalpost now? Fine?” I take a breath. Losing my shit isn’t something I’ve done in a while. I briefly close my eyes and rub my temple.

“This meeting shouldn’t have been added to your calendar. You’ve been up since what to be here?” Tapping her pen on a pad, she continues, “Two o’clock to catch the flight out of Austin? You’re exhausted, boss.”

As if it changes anything, I justify, “I stayed in bed until two thirty.” I don’t tell her that I was fucking Pris in a truck bed I parked just inside the entrance to the ranch. Our little plan to see each other one last time before I left had us sneaking around like horny teenagers.

“No wonder you’re tired and short-fused.” She smiles, though sympathy is shaping the corners. “On the bright side, the clients signed. So you may not be happy with your performance, but Keith is thrilled.” She leans forward. “You should be proud, Tagger. You closed the deal.”

“I closed it, but I wasn’t on my A game. My mind was left in Texas.”

“Is Texas something you’re considering?”

I rock back in the chair and stare at the window. The view is so different from the one at the ridge. Buildings of chrome and mirrored windows, a slice of the avenue just down the right side of my office, and a touch of sky if I stand closer and look up—it all pales compared to the miles of trees and rivers, the endless skies, rock formations, and my girl next to me.

I exhale and think about Beckett. “No. Just visiting.” My mood isn’t going to improve. She’s right. I’m tired and don’t have the right mindset to play the part this evening. And still thinking about my girl back in the Pass . . . Pris in the back of a Chevy beats cocktails with wealthy clients any day or night. “Cancel the cocktails at The Polo Bar. Tell them whatever you need to get me out of it.”

Surprise straightens her spine, and she moves to sit on the edge of the chair. “Are you sure? Keith will be there.”

“Keith can handle it. We have a signed contract. If it falls apart because I didn’t have a beer with them, then I lose the deal. I’m okay with that.” I glance at my watch. Since it’s just past six, I grab my phone and stand to go. “Don’t stay long.”

“I’m wrapping up.” She stands to follow me out.

I head for the exit but call back, “Enjoy your night.”

With a salute, she replies, “Yes, sir.”

I trek to the street and take the subway. No train delays or waiting to find a car to squeeze into should put me in a better mood. Surprisingly, it doesn’t. I reach the apartment building, and the doorman already has my suitcase beside the desk. I didn’t want to drag it into the office, so I had it delivered here instead.

“Good trip?” Jeff asks, rolling the case around the counter to me.

“Too quick of a trip.”

“I hear that. What dragged you back? I had you down for a Wednesday return.”

Dragged is right.There might have been some mental kicking and screaming as well. “Work.”

“Aw, man. No days off climbing that corporate ladder.”There sure the fuck isn’t.He tips his hat. “Have a good night, Mr. Grange.”

“Thanks.” I drag the suitcase into the elevator and up to the twentieth floor. Down the hall, I loosen my tie before I reach the door and enter my apartment. My clothes are usually a source of pride, but today, they feel like they’re strangling me for some reason.

Dropping my keys on the counter, I let the jacket slide from my shoulders and toss it on the arm of the couch as I cross the living room to the windows. Like the office, this is the view I used to aspire to have. Now, it’s gray, flat, and has lost the shine it once had.

Besides the added suitcase, there’s a ritual to my return each night. Predictable . . . I’m not sure when I became that guy, but it’s not exactly how I imagined my life.

I walk to the fridge, open the door, and consider grabbing a beer. I need a reset, though, not to sink deeper into comparisons. That’s what this is—Texas versus New York. Wide-open ranges versus a city that never sleeps.Pris versus . . .I close the fridge door. Unless I’m going to change the situation, it’s best I don’t continue down this path.

I should probably go for a run to burn off what I should be doing and get back to reality. Fifteen minutes later, I’m hitting the pavement. I don’t miss the Texas heat and humidity.Huh. A con is found among all the pros on the list.

Hitting the High Line, I run faster, wanting to feel the burn, needing to clear my head of what is and what isn’t my current situation. Wallowing was never in my blood. There wasn’t time for it. If I failed, I moved on. I came back stronger, faster, better, and succeeded the second time.

So why’d I set myself up for failure in this relationship?

Why’d I do it to her when I know I can’t be as present as she deserves?

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