Page 29 of Never Bed the Boss
I stare at him. “Take the company. Without Lilah, none of it matters.”
I look back at the empty stool, feeling the heat of Adrian’s gaze on my face. He thinks I’m bluffing, but I’m not. What’s the point of an empire without a queen?
Lilah’s my queen. My world. My everything. And without her, I’m nothing.
“I know you don’t mean that. You’ve put everything into this company. I’m not going to watch you throw it away.”
“Then close your eyes. Leave. Do whatever you want but I’m not changing my mind.”
Adrian sits quietly for a few moments. “You have three days to make your decision.”
“It’s already been made.” I down the rest of my whiskey and then sigh.
I’m not going anywhere without Lilah.
9
LILAH
When I left Asher,I thought I was making the right choice. When I ignored his calls and texts, trashed his flowers and gifts, burned his apologies, and ignored his every attempt to see me, I told myself it was for the best. When Josie stepped in, turning him away at my door repeatedly, I thought she was saving me from more heartbreak.
But after more than a month apart, it doesn’t feel right. I feel worse. Far worse. And I don’t see a light at the end of this.
“Heartbreak is hell, isn’t it?” Josie asks, sipping her wine.
I’m neglecting another dinner she generously prepared for us. She’s been my rock through this. There hasn’t been a day where she hasn’t dropped off a tray of chocolate chip cookies or brownies or a casserole. Anything to make sure I ate. And when I didn’t she’d regale me with even more crazy stories about her “glory days” as a traveling burlesque dancer in Europe. I thought I’d heard them all after the months I’ve lived here but I was wrong. It’s still hard to believe half the stories she tells, but she has the pictures to back up most of them.
She’s the main reason I started my bucket list. If I could live a quarter of the life Josie’s lived, I’d die happy.
I glance at her. My eyes have never felt so raw and dry before. I think I’ve used up every single tear inside of me. There’s nothing left. I swallow, unable to bring myself to answer her but then I nod.
She sighs, setting her glass down in front of her. “Have I told you about Giorgio?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“It’s not a story I tell often.” She sinks back into her chair, closing her eyes for a brief moment. “Bittersweet.”
“You don’t have to,” I offer, poking at the pasta on my plate.
She smiles at me. “I think I do.” She pauses for a few moments, as though mulling things over before downing the rest of her wine. She sets the glass on the table, refilling it again a few moments later.
“It was a whirlwind romance,” she says, pulling her shawl tighter. “The one who got away.”
I swallow hard as she launches into another story that sounds more like a fairy tale than real life.
Many decades ago when she was my age, she’d climbed onto a random man’s Vespa in the heart of Venice after fleeing from a jilted lover. She’d swiped a thousand or so lire from him and was partly dressed when she hopped on and urged the man to go. He said something in broken English and then spirited her away on an adventure that played out like a movie with a man who looked the part of dreamy Italian hunk.
Jaunts in the countryside, nights spent dancing under the stars, lazy mornings in bed after spending the night entwined with each other. Soaking up the sun on pristine beaches. More gelato and cannoli than any two people should consume. The breadth of their romance left me reeling. How lucky could a woman be, I thought, until she concluded the story after what felt like hours.
“He gave me our final kiss as the train departed. He hung out on the steps, gripping the rail as I ran with the train for as long as I could. He dipped in and out of sight as he sprinted down the aisle to the end of the train.” She pauses for a moment, her fingers playing with her shawl. “Our eyes met for the last time as I came to a stop at the edge of the platform. I kissed my fingers and brushed the air in front of me. He did the same. And that was that.”
I can’t even think of a response as warm tears roll down my cheeks. Apparently, I still have some lefty. I blink, looking down at my plate. It’s mostly empty, a half-eaten wedge of bread and smears of red-orange sauce is all that remains. I can’t remember the last time I ate more than a couple of bites of anything. And I don’t remember eating while I listened to Josie’s story.
“What happened?” I ask, throat craggy.
“What do you mean?” Josie asks, taking a final swig of her wine before sliding her glass away.
“What happened between you two?”
