Page 4 of Unless It's You
Happy Friday, sisters! I hope you got some rest on your flight. I couldn’t sleep last night. I’m curled up on my couch
Reese
Oliver just brought me a giant, steaming mug of coffee. I didn’t sleep well either. Miss you already, Stella
Maddie
I wish someone would bring me coffee!
After meeting in Scotland last summer and attempting to fake date, Reese and Oliver fell ridiculously in love. I witnessed their bliss first-hand this past week, and wasn’t sure if I should vomit all over them or weep with envy.
Let’s go with vomit.
I have no interest in being so in love that I lose all sense of who I am and what I want—and don’t want—in life. As delightful as Oliver is, I still feel like Reese should have embraced being single for a lot longer, not let the first hot Scottish ex-professional soccer player who paid attention to her change the course of her life.
Wait... hmm. That doesn’t sound quite right. Maybe she did okay.
An uninvited vision of my ex pops up in my brain. Tall, slender, wavy blond hair, baby blue eyes. Breaking up with Ben six months ago was the right thing to do. I don’t even like mybossordering me around, and having a man influence everything in my life, from what I eat for dinner to where I live or—like what happened before we split—having an opinion on my take on not having children.
He knew where I stood but thought he could change my mind. Doesn’t matter that he was cute and perfect on paper, or seemed devastated by our breakup. Surely, I wasn’t in love with him. I don’t even know what that feels like. Honestly, I don’t think I’m capable of being in love. Not anymore. Still, I feel that familiar twinge in my gut when I think of Ben.DidI do the right thing by walking away?
Better to walk away from him than get walked away from, which is what happened with Hunter before I moved to London seven years ago. That man broke me permanently, and while I’ve dated a few guys since—Ben most recently and for the longest—it always feels like I’m faking it. Like Reese and Oliver did last summer, except with a different ending.
Ben said it to me straight: I’m not girlfriend material. Not wife material. Not mother material. It was during our last fight,and the truth stung. He said I was a closed book, that he couldn’t even talk to me.
I respond to the text chain with a GIF of a woman pouring an entire pot of coffee over her head.
Me
I’m at the office, counting down the minutes until I can crash at home. Love you both. Talk later xo
Now my meeting is in twenty minutes, but I’m officially in sloth mode. I click through my emails to find the message from Tessa with client information. I should know most of it because of the work I’ve already done with Mentor Me.
I skim the summary, focusing on the Sporting London information. Tessa pasted the contact’s email into her message, and I let out a snort. What kind of monster agrees to comeintoan office andget started right away?
I’m good at my job managing the creative process with the agency and client, so this kind of initial meeting will be easy. I already know their objective is to announce the merger and ask for holiday donations. After the meeting, I’ll get the brief written and approved, and then the creative team will work on concepts. There will be storyboard decisions, a director to choose, and talent to select. The client will be involved in each step. It should be a smooth process that I can do in my sleep, which is perfect as I might be actually asleep during the meeting.
“Who am I talking to today...” I mutter to myself and scroll down to the bottom of the email.
My hand freezes above the mouse and I gasp, as shocked as if a green ogre had popped over the cubicle wall, saidCheerio!,and handed me a triple mocha with whipped cream.
I squint my eyes and stare at the name of the client lead.
No. Can’t be. Uh-uh.
The name dances in front of my suddenly alert eyes:Ethan Fraser.
There must be a million people in London with his name. A million ex-professional rugby players with tattoo sleeves and a full beard, who would make me want to hide with one withering, judgmental glance from his gorgeous dark eyes across the bar during the year I dated Ben. Wait, no, not gorgeous—angry. Brooding. Unfeeling. Mean.
Before that, he and I had such a fun night at Gemma’s birthday drinks. Drinks, kisses, and I’d even shared the Unless Game with him, which he gleefully played along with. But the fun ended when he left me at the door to my flat. Gemma went to university with Ben and Ethan, so a few days later, when I met Ben at her birthday dinner, she’d insistedhewas the one for me,notEthan. She had the inside knowledge that Ethan was hanging out with his ex and was in the process of getting back together with her.
I was bummed, so when Ben asked me out, I said yes.
Ethan was such a dick to me during the time I was with Ben. Luckily, he wasn’t around a lot, but when he was, he was always glaring at me from across the room. There was only one other night when he’d showed another side of him. I shake my head to getthatweird memory out.
“No, no. No.” I lean away from the screen. My heart races and I lay my hand on my chest to calm it.
Ten minutes until the meeting.
