Page 45 of Tender Offer (Chance at Love #3)

Madison

L iquid courage does wonders when you have nothing to lose.

My “Hi” mimics the Joker when he was pretending to be a nurse after blowing up Harvey Dent’s fiancée.

How no one knew it was him in The Dark Knight , with that hideous wig and face full of white makeup, is as ridiculous as I look now.

I glance at Emma, whose brows are about to touch her top lip, and slide onto the barstool beside her.

My bodycon dress hugs my knees, and it takes a second to get the memo that we’re sitting before I can breathe.

I want to compliment her strapless floral number, but I can’t gauge if her scowl will come with a drink in my face or a slap. Not that I’d blame her. I’d hate myself too if I were the monster she thinks I am.

“Are you going to eye-fuck the side of my face all night, or do you have something intelligent to say?”

Okay then.

My nails drum over the champagne flute I’m looking into like a crystal ball. Worst-case scenario, Emma causes a scene that lands me in the hospital and both of us on the news. Or maybe she ignores me. She owes me nothing after the way I’ve treated Justice.

I drain my glass. Liquid courage. “Can we please talk?”

Emma is so silent I peek to see if she heard me.

It’s confirmed with a glare she tosses back with her martini. “Let me save you the trouble: ‘I’m sorry, I made a mistake.’”

My snort at her nasal taunt catches us both off guard. I don’t mean to laugh—it’s a dig at my expense—but hours of cocktails and loneliness will make you a glutton for punishment.

At the after-party for the photo shoot I styled, Emma was a cameo I didn’t expect. A handful of crew and models stayed behind to celebrate haute looks in high fashion.

It was clear Emma knew Jonathan, the photographer who brilliantly captured styles I curated, by their hugs and air kisses. She floated through our section of the bar with her mahogany hair and a smile that faltered when she thought no one was looking.

Who or what was the reason behind her blank stares into the distance remained a mystery. Keeping my mask in check has been a battle since I left Paris.

Preston hasn’t stopped calling or texting since. It took him a day to pull his head out of his ass from whatever had his attention for a week straight.

Her.

I gotta admit, Bellamy schooled me in our silent game of chess, tipping the board in her favor.

Preston was nonexistent, tucked away in her office and wherever else they conducted “business.” With William back in London, I conjured images of every position Preston had Bellamy between their late nights and private meetings.

Spread over her desk.

Against the window.

Facedown in a pile of documents saturated with their sweat.

Alone in a penthouse day after day, I couldn’t stop the thoughts or the silence. So I left.

Had Preston held a conversation long enough, he’d have known about the job that had me on a red-eye to Los Angeles. The pay is great, and the shots will be in a major fashion magazine for all to see.

Why stay frustrated at home when you can be frustrated cashing a check and enjoying a Friday night with champagne?

The party ended some time ago, leaving me and Emma as the last two seated at the bar. It’s fairly empty, the remnants of cocktail glasses left on the honey-wood counter. A large mirror between top-shelf bottles reflects low-hung chandeliers and the worst attempt at an awkward conversation.

“You’re still a bitch,” Emma says.

I choke on champagne that threatens to shoot through my nose. “I’m a good person once you get to know me!”

“You mean once you get past your thirsty ways of running after married men?” A brow lifts. “You’re lucky you didn’t catch a beatdown.”

I open my mouth to defend myself but think twice.

Emma makes it sound like I set worldrecords chasing down unavailable men.

I am guilty of flirting with Terrence while he was with Justice, but I never ran after him until I saw him at the singles’ retreat.

It wasn’t a run, anyway. More like a slow strut with confidence that evaporated after he sprinted toward Justice. Twice.

The gut-punch of embarrassment faded, but not the guilt of my actions. “You’re right,” I say to Emma, who’s daring me to lie. I don’t scare easily, but now I flinch. “You don’t fight, do you?”

“Do I look like I’d chance ruining this dress over you?”

It looks vintage, so no.

I nod at the bartender, who’s eyeing my drink for a refill. He offers a sympathetic smile. His salt-and-pepper hair contrasts with the blue-gray stare he snaps at Emma, warning her to be nicer.

If he only knew.

“I appreciate your willingness to sit with me.”

“Like I had a choice.”

Right, because I came over to her.

“I really was a bitch,” I admit through a breath.

“Was?”

I deserve that. Back to my glass my eyes go.

“I can’t apologize enough for my behavior at the singles’ retreat.

Before.” The loose waves reaching past my shoulders fan at my headshake.

“I was in a bad place and wanted… There’s no excuse for how I treated Justice.

I never expected Terrence to leave her.”

“You’re not that delusional.” Emma’s gaze roves over me. “Maybe you are.”

I was.

Envy weaved itself with entitlement. I never crossed lines I couldn’t come back from, but I left a path of destruction because of my selfishness.

Emma is talking, but the chaos of my thoughts is louder. Is this how Bellamy feels about Preston, so fed up with the world around her that she latches on to affection at any cost? It’s funny how you don’t focus on the casualties you create until you become a target.

The tears I hold back weigh heavy. “Trust me when I say I feel awful. I’ve done a lot of soul-searching since the retreat. Work I should’ve done years ago. I’m not a person who plots and schemes to take people down.”

No matter how I justify the actions I knew needled under Justice’s skin, I bear the scarlet letter.

Change can’t afford the past, but I don’t want my poor judgment to define who I am.

Emma is close with Kojo, which means the likelihood of us together beyond random after-parties is up there.

I’m not delusional enough to expect a friendship, but I hope we can be cordial.

By some small miracle, Emma and I navigate the minefield of my past actions and regret. I’m a drink away from calling it a night and heading to my hotel room upstairs, but I can’t shake the feeling that’s been troubling me since I got the courage to come over.

“Are you okay?” I gauge her reaction to my inquiry. “You don’t owe me anything—least of all an explanation—but I recognize it. The mask to make everything look like it’s fine when it’s not.” My grip constricts around my glass. “I wore it for many years. Still do.”

Preston is slipping away, the same way he did in Paris. I can feel it, and I’m not ready for the wave of heartbreak to return. I barely survived it the first time.

“When is feeling ignored enough?” Emma’s voice is faint, but the heartbreak is clear. Her arresting features—a blend of high-arched brows, smooth cheekbones, and pursed, full lips—loosen the facade held up by her willpower.

“Let me know once you find out,” I mumble.

Preston is probably off to another three-hour meeting. Busyness comes with the CEO territory, but it doesn’t give him the right to invest in pursuing me only to snatch the effort away once he hooks me.

“You know what? Fuck this.” The rise in Emma’s tone startles me while earning the bartender’s frown. “I don’t want to feel this anymore,” she says, pointing to her heart. “No more!” I jump again.

“No more tears!” is a charge she releases into air thick with unspoken grief and the classical music that cascades from a hidden speaker system.

Her frustration—from love, loss, and possible lies—activates my voice, and I scream, “No more!” It earns another curious glance from the bartender, but ask me if I care.

“He left me for another work emergency, like I’m luggage he can put down and pick up whenever he wants,” I say. “I’m sick of it.”

I’m sorry, Puff.

I’ll be done soon.

Just a few more hours.

Every feeling I repressed to be the understanding partner slams into me. “If he wanted me, he would come and get me, but I’m not waiting around to find out.”

I’m ranting to Emma like I pay her an hourly rate and call her “doctor.” It fades with a double take at a person who’s staring at her back. His approach swallows the distance in long strides. My mouth dries, but I manage to whisper his name.

“Miles.”

They were both at the singles’ retreat with their respective best friends, which I assume explains whatever this is. Terrence’s best friend and Trevante Rhodes’s long-lost twin is here, and he only has eyes for Emma.

From what I remember, he’s as enthusiastic about commitment as Emma, who avoids relationships at all costs. It’s still weird to me that she and Justice, who are polar opposites, are so close, but I’ve seen stranger things.

Like Miles pining for Emma in the middle of a bar.

Why on earth is he here? Did they… no .

He clears all suspicion about his intentions with his chocolate stare that hasn’t moved from its target. His shadow stretches over her tighter than the tee that’s straining to accommodate the thick arms folded over his broad chest.

Emma repeats “Miles” to make sense of it but freezes at his “Kitten” in rich baritone. Her lips part, and her eyes go wide before narrowing to face him.

A brief staredown ensues, but Emma incinerates it when she tells him to “Save it.”

What requires saving is an answer I’d like to know. She and Miles are a pairing I never would’ve guessed. She asks me if I’m good on my own. I am, but I would rather stay to see how this plays out.

“Did you two—”

“Not your business,” she reminds me with the same clarity in her tone she used to call me a bitch. “You and I aren’t there yet, but this was nice.”

“It was,” I say to Emma, who is already on her way to the door. “See you around, Miles.”

My eyes slide from his small afro to his beard. Those weren’t at the singles’ retreat.

I snatch my ringing phone off the bar, scowling like Emma at the name on my screen.

“What excuse is there today, Preston?” I storm off without a goodbye for Terrence’s best friend or a hello for the man who’s two-stepping on my last nerve.

“Puff, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so distant.”

Damn him and his seductive voice!

“I’ll make it—”

“You’ll always make it up to me,” I gripe. I follow it up with a laugh, not giving the slightest damn who hears me. Nothing about this is funny except for the apology stuck on repeat.

“You changed.”

“Puff.”

“Don’t ‘Puff’ me!”

The marble floor of the lobby absorbs the blow of my heels on their short path to the elevators. Somewhere between the bar and the foyer, my strut went from Olivia Pope to Annalise Keating real fast. The day is finally catching up with me.

It’s then I notice my missing clutch with the key card to my room. Great . I stomp my ass back to the bar, fried from the photo shoot and this conversation.

“Leave something?” The question comes from the phone I peel away from my ear. I didn’t drink that much damn champagne, not enough to bend the laws of physics.

Preston is here.

With my black clutch and a smile, he says, “Hello, Puff.”