Page 12 of Work: Strictly Professional (Bad Decisions Book 2)

I make it back to my apartment before the depth and breadth of my own insanity hits me. Just. I make it back just in time. One minute later, and I wouldn’t have made it. I drop my keys and phone on the table and rip off my jacket, tearing at my collar, ripping buttons when I can’t open them fast enough. My lungs scream as if I’m being held underwater.

I gasp.

And gasp.

It doesn’t help. Air means nothing to me.

I see Barbara Anne’s face as I struggle. Her eyes. Wide. Shocked. Hurt. And I hear her words.

I hope he’ll make you happy.

Happy.

Happy?

Me?

I don’t know what came over me in that room. What the fuck happened? I mean, it’s madness. Obviously, what came over me was madness. It’s a clear case of insanity. I’ve clearly taken leave of my senses. I’ve made a bad decision. A very, very bad decision. A terrible, ridiculous decision. A nuclear, life-altering decision.

I’m bringing Wyn?

It’s early, but it feels right?

Did I really say that? Did I really propose that a man I employ, one who clearly can’t stand me, attend my son’s wedding as my fake date?

Fake date?What the fuck? What am I, ten?

No, no, I’m not. I’m forty-eight. The time for this level of stupidity was over decades ago. Decades.

I pace up and down. Living room, then the kitchen, then the dining room. The space around me shrinks and becomes unbearable. Unsurvivable. I charge the walls at speed and grind to a halt, spinning around and flying in the opposite direction just before I crash into the solid surface. I throw the doors open as I move, not caring that they aren’t latched. Not caring that I usually care a great deal about things like that. My mind races the entire time, unable to land on a thought and stick with it. I brush the surface of many things. Everything. Things I want. Things I don’t want. Things I’ve forbidden myself ever to say or think all the way through. I oscillate wildly. This thing and that. Yes and no. At a certain point, I can’t tell if I’m flying or dying. A caged beast, or something that’s finally free.

I’m about to turn and do another lap when something catches my eye. The late afternoon sun glints off glass. It stops me. I stand still, and while trying to work out what I’m looking at, I forget that I can’t breathe. One massive gulp of air fills my lungs after another. I’m weakened, almost limping, as I make my way to the lounger on the west side of the garden. I sit down heavily and eye the glass on the side table. It’s almost empty. Just a sip or two of water left in it. There’s a sprig of rosemary and a small bunch of wilted mint at the bottom.

I hold the glass in both hands for ages, turning it slowly, lifting it so the last rays of sun catch it.

At last, I see it. A subtle imprint. Tiny opaque lines that fan out in the shape of a half-moon.

Someone drank from this glass. Someone let themselves into my space and sat here today. Someone with access to my home. Someone with an excess of audacity.

I trace my thumb just under the imprint, close but not touching. I do it again. And again. Closer each time. Then, I lift the glass to my lips and drag my tongue along the cool rim.

By the time the sun dips behind the horizon, I’m breathing easy, and I don’t hate my madness quite as much as I did.