Page 67 of Crazy In Love (Love & War #2)

But it wasn’t the kind of love that lasts. She was incapable. She was just a child, desperate to be chosen just once in her damn life. And good for her. She held on to that love all the way until midnight last night.

I couldn’t say these things to you while I was in Plainview, because I was working on immaturity and insecurity.

I wanted you to take the leap and speak your feelings first because I was scared to walk out on that ledge alone.

It’s ironic, really, that I would lecture you on comfort, when I was the biggest coward of all. That makes me a hypocrite.

I hit send on that message, too, but when I start typing some more, the speech bubbles on the other side pull me up short.

He’s typing, and holy hell, that nausea I thought I’d escaped comes spilling back as violently as a tidal wave.

Just to clarify: You love(d) me? But you fell out of love with me around midnight last night?

I stop just six feet from Booker’s office and slam my back to the wall, tipping my head up and filling my cheeks with air that escapes on a whistle.

But then my phone vibrates with another message.

What the hell did I do at midnight last night that hurt your feelings? I was in bed, not sleeping, but definitely minding my own business.

How can you blame me for something I had no part in?

I choke out a pathetic laugh and swipe fresh tears from my lashes.

Firstly, and just because I can’t let this moment go without saying so, your texts today contain more words than ALL of your previous texts combined.

That’s interesting!

Second, you did nothing at midnight last night. But I stopped being mad and sad and weird about the declaration I didn’t get at the airport-taxi stand-and/or my apartment door.

Because that was immature and silly, and it’s not what true love is built upon.

Those declarations were for a little girl who desperately wanted to be chosen. Now…

I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and suckle, tapping send while I contemplate how to finish my sentence.

Now, what? You met some hunk on the plane and forgot about me?

Now, I’m a woman who was chosen. Finally. It took me nearly three decades to realize waiting for someone else to love me is ridiculous, when I needed to love me all along.

I had that power, but I kept tossing it to everyone else, hoping they’d do something magical with it.

But here’s the kicker: I never told these people what I needed. In fact, I told them the opposite.

Like expecting Alana to beg me to move to Plainview: duh, of course, she wouldn’t! I never shut up about hating the place.

And telling you I wanted us to be a secret: how could I expect you to tell me any different, when I’d already made clear I only wanted casual?

I kept saying I wanted one thing, but hoped silently for another. And then I kept getting mad when I received the things I asked for and not the things I wished for .

“Fox?”

I startle and spin, locking eyes with a curious Booker waiting in his office door.

His gaze flickers down to my phone, then up to my face.

And though I know he sees the tears in my eyes, he swallows and pretends, for my sake, they don’t exist. “We’re ready when you are. Take a minute, then join us.”

Take a minute and wipe your face, you unhinged whackadoodle.

Nodding, I clean my cheek and clear my throat. “One minute and I’ll be ready to start. Thank you.”

He drops his chin and backs up, closing the door and giving me my moment of privacy, so when I check my screen again, I’m greeted by a barrage that make my heart skip.

I’m sorry I have an aversion to itchy sheets and ill-fitting shirts. If I could touch either without wanting to tear my skin off, I would.

But since we’re taking a leap and streaking buck-ass naked out of comfortable and into exposed as fuck: I love you.

Stupidly, I told Tommy. And I told Alana. Oh, and Cliff knows.

And Eliza, too.

And Raya.

In fact, she told me. And even when I tried to deny it, she called me a liar. A hunky, hunky liar—her words.

So basically, everyone knows. Except you.

Yet, you were the only one I needed to tell. I fucked that up, Fox. I swear, I wanted to. I tried to.

But the idea that you wouldn’t feel the same scared the piss out of me, so I shut my trap and wasted our five weeks, and now you’re in New York.

Would you believe me if I told you I was planning to move there, too? I was gonna follow you .

I cough on the emotion trying its best to choke me. Then I type a fast reply.

Yeah, Alana told me last night.

But then Rome happened, and Rome is much, much farther away. Now you’re telling me, as of midnight last night, you’re no longer in love with me anyway?

I snicker.

It’s a different kind of love. Rooted in self-love first. Which, I’m led to believe, is a far superior option anyway.

“Fox?” Less patient now, Booker pulls his door open. “We have to start.”

“Yeah, sorry.” I wipe my nose and quickly type, despite Chris’ moving speech bubbles.

I have to go into a meeting right now. But I’ll call you later. Maybe. If you wanna talk.

I know we screwed up the first round. But a traditional fight has, like, three rounds, right?

Five, actually. If we screw up the next one, we’re still good for a few more.

Not sure how long-distance will work, seeing as how I hardly talk, and I really like touching you.

But I’m open to crappy hotel sheets if you’re willing to slum it with a dude who gets weird about forks.

I’m willing to learn Italian for you. I mean, I’ll complain about it, and I’ll focus mostly on the cuss words.

But this is how adults have relationships, right? It’s how they move from really great secret sex, into something a little more important.

I’m sorry I wasn’t at the airport to do the big declaration thing you wanted. And now, I can’t even do the declaration thing without you assuming I did it because you told me to. Which kinda sucks.

Anyway. You already said you were going into a meeting, so maybe I’m talking to myself. I do that more than you think.

Catch you when I catch you. Kinda wanna tell you I love you. But it feels weird.

So, ya know… I’m thinking it, even if typing it makes my hands shake.

“Fox?!”

“Yep!” I lock my screen and shove my phone into my bag, and tugging out a small white envelope from the depths of my purse, I push off the wall and follow Booker into his office.

Amedeo, our Italian GGH director, waits in one of two of Booker’s visitor chairs, a sharp Italian suit draped around a fit body, and dark brown eyes sparkling with amusement as he watches me stumble into the room.

I make a beeline for the only remaining chair, setting my purse on the floor by the leg, then I turn to Amedeo and offer my hand. “Mr. Conti. Welcome to New York. I was thrilled when I found out you’d be here.”

“Ciao.” He flashes a megawatt grin and stands, wrapping my hands in his much the same way Eugene did last night. “It’s good to be back, even if my visit will be short.”

“The contracts have been drawn up by legal.” Booker sets a stack of paperwork on his desk and unbuttons his suit jacket, before sitting down and gesturing for Amedeo and me to do the same.

“You’ll want to read them over, Fox, but for expediency’s sake, I’ll tell you: your job remains the same as it is here in New York.

However, the office over there is smaller, and the staff members are fewer.

This makes for a perfect opportunity to continue and expand, what you’re already doing here and still have time to learn from Amedeo.

We’ve discussed in detail your desire to explore the things we do, and Amedeo has been hinting at bringing you across to Rome for the last little while.

So when we came to the conclusion you could do both jobs, an idea was born, and a position was created. ”

“I feel you will be pleased with the accommodations we have in place for you.” Amedeo crosses one leg over the other, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair and his chin in his upturned hand.

And because he’s not entirely old or ugly, he smiles that way men like him do. “I’d be happy to have you in my city.”

“Your contract stipulates five years,” Booker continues, “broken down into one-year intervals. At the end of each year, you’re welcome to renegotiate terms with Amedeo first, and then us, second.

If at any point you decide you’re dissatisfied with the change, you would put that in writing and let us know.

We would hate to lose you because you think you can’t return, so?—”

“I’m sorry. Could I stop you for a moment?

” I pick up my contract, only to set my small envelope down in its place.

I pass it to neither men, nor do I explain its contents.

I merely settle back and leaf through the contract, searching for the words I hope desperately to locate.

Words I know exist. I just have to find them.

“I loathe to be that person, gentleman. Causing a fuss when no fuss is necessary.”

“Please.” Amedeo gestures my way. “Fuss, Ms. Tatum. What’s on your mind?”

“Well…” I cough out a nervous laugh. “Probably not what you’re expecting.”

In my peripherals, Booker’s eyes narrow to dangerous slits.

“Here.” I set the contract on my lap and point at the words that set me free. Sort of . They provide me a lifeline. Ish. “It’s stipulated here I have the option to work remotely three days a week, provided I attend the staff meeting on the first Monday of every month.”

Curious, Amedeo rolls his bottom lip between his thumb and finger. “This is correct. Technology removes the limitation on one’s workspace. I, myself, am working remotely today. You accept these terms?”

“Not in their entirety.” I draw a heavy breath and fill my lungs with the bravery I so desperately need, then exhaling again, I meet Booker’s eyes.

Since, really, he’s my boss. Amedeo needn’t even be here.

“I wish for five days a week remote work, but I accept monthly meetings, here or in Rome. Or London, even. Wherever you need me to be.”