“It’s not much, but you already own my heart, so this is just a placeholder for that.”
“It’s perfect.”
And it had been.
I briefly touched the spot on my left hand, now ringless and empty. “I didn’t change my mind about him.”
“Then, what made you run?”
“I didn’t deserve him.”
I still didn’t.
~Garrett~
Dropping Leah and the kids off, I briefly stopped inside to say hi to Leah’s husband, Declan.
Then, I headed into the office. I didn’t have to since it was Saturday, but this was what workaholics did. It was what anyone with an addiction did. I had to feed it constantly. Otherwise, the pain would start to surface again, and I’d be forced to deal with it. So, when everyone else was as far away from the office as possible, hanging out with friends or playing with their kids, I was scanning my corporate key card and taking the elevator up to the floor holding the Richmond office of the pharmaceutical company I’d been working for since college.
There were two types of workaholics in my opinion. There could be more. I hadn’t done an official study. Psychology was always Mia’s thing—or at least, it used to be until she’d apparently decided to become an accountant instead. But as far as I could see, people either worked themselves ragged to get to the top or they did so to avoid their own pathetic lives. I was the latter pretending to be the former. I played the part well. As the young team leader, I was known as a rise-to-the-top, do-anything-to-succeed corporate star. Honestly though, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about this place.
I hated my job—like, really f**king hated it.
No one would ever know it by the way I acted. I would take on every project and account I could get my hands on. Someone couldn’t work late? I’d take it. Michelle needed to cancel her trip to Dallas because her kid was sick? Sure, I’d go for her. To my coworkers, I was their saving grace and a team player to the end, and all my hard work had paid off. I had been promoted faster than any other sales executive my age. I’d made more deals and earned more bonuses, raking in more cash than anyone else in the company. Within a few years, I would be running the entire Richmond office, if not somewhere larger.
Did I want to? Hell no.
So, why was I still here? It kept my mind occupied.
It was the workaholic logic. As long as I was working, as long as I was immersed in something, I could keep my mind off her, and I would be fine.
When I’d been about to graduate from college, I had hoped to get a position at an architecture firm, but everywhere I had looked, I had been turned down. It had been my major and my dream in college. Unfortunately, the country had been in an economic shithole, and building and construction had hit an all-time low.
I had been forced to look outside my field. I’d taken the first job I could find—pharmaceutical sales. I had the face for it, doctors loved me, and it paid well. I had become addicted—addicted to the hours, addicted to the mind-numbing nothingness it gave me. So, my design work had become nothing more than a pastime, and I’d become Garrett Finnegan, pharmaceutical salesman extraordinaire.
The elevator dinged, and I exited on the fifth floor. I took a right toward my office, and I walked past the sea of cubicles, now dark and full of lengthy gray shadows. Offices were always a bit creepy in the off-hours. During business hours, there would be so much noise that the air was thick with it—phones rang, keyboards clicked, people chatted and shuffled around. But in the late hours, when it was just me, it would be dead silent and eerie, like the building recognized an intruder and silently watched me as I swiftly made my way through.
I unlocked the door to my office and immediately went to the coffeemaker in the corner. Coffee was an overworked man’s best friend. I was selfish, and I had bought my own coffeemaker a few years ago. It was one of those single-cup fancy things that could make tea, cappuccino, probably hot-wax my car, and build a spaceship. All I knew was that it was easy, and it made the shit fast. The girls in the office were always telling me I should get the fancy shit, like some caramel-and-hazelnut-drizzled-coconut crap. Did I look like I wanted coconut in my coffee? If I could put an IV into my vein and pump this stuff directly to my heart, I’d go for it—as long as it was black.
While I waited for my wake-up juice to brew, I booted up my computer, and I looked out the window into the city, tapping my foot. This view always used to calm me. I loved this city. I’d gone to college about two hours away, but I’d immediately moved back after I graduated. My parents lived just outside the city limits in a quiet, beautiful neighborhood with aged trees and white fences. When I had moved back, I’d wanted to be in the midst of everything, so I’d picked an apartment within walking distance of tons of great restaurants, bars, and anything else I might need. I could take the bus to work if I wanted, and I could walk or ride my bike to practically anywhere. The city that usually relaxed me was now setting me on edge. Suddenly, my favorite place to be was making me feel uneasy and nervous.
She was out there somewhere.
I never expected her to come back.
I never expected her to come back and not want to find me.
The gurgling sound of the coffeemaker caught my attention, and I turned to find my computer was ready as well. With my freshly brewed cup in hand, I sat down and got to work, pulling up my email, reports, and various other things.
Five minutes later, I was staring at the same report, and I hadn’t made any progress.
Mia was back. My mind couldn’t get past that, and I was having a hard time processing what I would do now that she was back in my life.
Was she back in my life?
Did I want her to be?
I looked at the clock. Thirty minutes had passed.
Fuck.
Leah had seemed to think it was simple. Mia was back, and I was here. We were both single—although Mia had never confirmed that fact—and we had history.
Leah had said, See? Easy, Goober!
No, not easy.
Mia wasn’t some teenage crush. She was the one, and I’d spent my entire adult life trying to convince my heart otherwise—without any luck. Losing her once had left me a shell of what I had once been. Losing her again would utterly destroy me.
Would I be willing to take the risk if I were offered it? If Mia could be mine again, would I take it?
“What do you mean, she’s gone?” I asked, my voice sounding hoarse from the shock.
“She’s gone, Mr. Finnegan,” Mia’s mother said coldly.