Текст книги "Perfectly Imperfect"

Автор книги: Harper Sloan

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Please …” I plead and look up through the foggy haze created by my unshed tears.

I watch his eyes fire, something working quickly over his expression before he wipes it clean. Before I can give it much thought, relief washes over me. Whatever he sees in the gaze he’s holding prisoner must be enough. A deep breath of air rushes from his full lips and warms my already burning face before he nods once and moves away from me. He doesn’t speak again; instead, he gathers the rest of my personal belongings and places them back in my broken purse. I pull myself from the floor carefully to avoid looking like the weakling that I am, and when Kane stands, I take my broken bag from his fingers. He doesn’t speak, just nods when I clutch it to my chest as if it was a shield.

“Thank you,” I murmur, not looking up from his chest.

“It was nothing.” He sighs softly.

“Well, thank you nonetheless. I’m sorry for interrupting your morning.”

“At the risk of sounding like a jerk, the interruption was my pleasure.”

My eyes flit to his quickly, and my mouth opens. I blink … slowly … a few times as his full lips turn up into a smile that makes my already racing heart pick up speed.

“Good luck in there, beautiful Willow.”

Another slow blink. Did Kane Masters just call me beautiful? Surely, not.

“Until next time,” he continues his deep rumbles.

Do what?

With that, he turns and walks over to the receptionist. With one more glance back, he follows her out of the lobby.

I take a few more minutes to collect myself before I grab the rest of my things and head to the doorway the others went through earlier. As hard as it is going to be to forget any of the last ten minutes happened, I do my best to shove that embarrassing scene into my box of shame deep within and collect the last shred of my pride before heading off to end this terrible chapter of my life.

An hour later, my divorce from Brad finally becomes official. It was easy enough; I asked for nothing knowing damn well it wouldn’t be given without a fight I couldn’t afford. I spent the whole time inside the conference room staring at my hands while my headache intensified. When I managed to pull my pride up like a proverbial big tug of my britches earlier and walk through the door, the first thing my eyes met were the hate-filled gaze of Brad Tate, my now ex-husband. When I sat down across the table from my perfectly tailored ex-husband, all I could do was wonder, and not for the first time, how we ever made it through four years of marriage. He sat there with a tight lip and narrow eyes, never wavering in his directed probing, as I tried my hardest to remember if we ever even liked each other.

No, I take that back. I liked him. But I can admit now it wasn’t love. I loved the idea of him, but it was only ever an unhealthy way for me to feel like I was desired by someone. I was alone and miserable, grasping at anything I could find to feel. But I can honestly say now it was never love.

He sat there as the mirror image of perfection. His body, one of his better qualities, looked nothing short of impeccable in his dark suit. His hair styled flawlessly and his face–the one I used to find so handsome—couldn’t even hide his attractiveness with the twisted look of abhorrence he directed across the table at me.

And next to him sat my sister, Ivy. His way of making sure this day was even more painful for me, and she most likely was all for making sure that was the case. We have never gotten along. Not even as children. She is the only person, besides Brad and my father, that is, who I might hate the most.

And sadly, I’ve played into her hand far too often. When I look over at my sister, I see everything I’m not. Everything she’s made sure to remind me that I never will be.

We may be sisters, but we’re also complete opposites in looks and personality.

Ivy, like me, is tall, but Ivy is also a product of the utmost beauty money can buy. Beauty she has no problem spending one hell of a pretty penny to maintain. It’s really a shame she couldn’t pay someone to fix her evil, black soul.

“Well, Mrs. Tate,” my lawyer starts while shuffling some of the papers around in front of him. “It looks as if everything is in order.” He hands his thick stack over to his partner and together they make sure everything is, in fact, in order.

I don’t speak.

My sister makes a noise deep in her throat that has me wondering if she’s choking on her tongue.

“Don’t you mean Ms.?” Brad retorts, venom dripping from each word.

My attorney clears his throat and looks at me with pity before addressing Brad. “Yes, my apologies, Mr. Tate. Slip of the tongue.”

“How long until we can take care of that issue?” Brad strangely requests, looking over at the other Mr. Buchanan.

“Take care of what issue exactly, Mr. Tate?” my attorney interjects.

My eyes move from my lawyer to Brad. His eyes flash in anger before he slams his fist on the polished wood causing my headache to pierce through my skull.

“How long until that woman can be rid of my name?”

That woman? Jesus. You would think I was some stranger and not the woman he married and pledged forever to.

“Excuse me?” I whisper harshly, trying not to vomit from the pressure of pain my head is bringing me.

“You heard me, Willow. You have no business with my name now that we are no longer married. I’ll be damned if I allow you to tarnish my family’s good name any longer. Especially now that I’m finally rid of you.”

Ivy snickers, and my gaze moves over to hers. Her thick black hair is pulled back so harshly in a tight bun that it looks like her scalp is about to peel right away at her hairline. There isn’t a single part of her that isn’t made up right now. But even with the amount of Botox she shoots into her face, I can still see the hate burning brightly in her gaze.

“Why exactly are you even here, Ivy?” I snap. God, it feels good to let out some of my anger.

Her evil little smirk, or at least I think it was a smirk, slips. Maybe she has gas. Her eyes twitch and I guess that’s her only way to narrow them since she can’t actually change her expression.

“You stupid little cow. I’m here because, unlike you, I belong on the arm of my Bradie-poo.”

Bradie-poo?

I hear, without focusing on my attorney, him explaining to Brad that if I should desire to return to my maiden name, then it would be my decision and mine alone. I’m too busy holding Ivy’s gaze to pay attention. Brad grunts a few times, and I see both Mr. Buchanans move toward the door.

When the door final clicks shut, my eyes move from hers and I look at my ex.

“Do you really think you’re any match for Ivy, Willow? You need to see to that name correction so that the Tate family name can go to the right sister this time.”

I gasp and my eyes snap from his back to Ivy, who is doing her best Vanna impression to wave a giant—a lot bigger than my ring ever was—rock sitting pretty on her left ring finger.

“How long?” I question, not removing my gaze.

“You stupid girl,” Ivy snaps. “I was fucking your husband the day he realized he married the wrong sister. We might be related, but when you started to balloon up like a whale, he realized his mistake real quick.”

I don’t react. I refuse to give them anything else. Not a second more of my pain and damn sure none of my tears. I’m better than this.

“Feels good to have someone ride me without taking all the air from my body.” Brad snidely laughs.

My eyes connect with his, but I hold it in. I draw on the inner strength I have left and keep my face passive.

“Have a nice life, sister dear.”

I watch as they gather their things. Brad places the official paperwork copy of our divorce neatly in his briefcase, and his arm wraps—easily—around Ivy’s waist as they go to leave the room.

“Take care of it, Willow. I no longer desire to have any part of me touching you any longer than necessary. The Tate’s reputation upholds a level of perfection that you no longer manifest.”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond—not that I would have. Instead, he ushers my witch of a sister right out the door … slamming it for good measure.

I look back down, my belly rolling over the button of my black slacks, and sigh. He’s right. I’m about as far from perfect as it gets. I’m sure when the evil queen looks into her enchanted mirror and asks who the fairest of them all is, my image never pops up.

I reach up and swipe at the one tear that slips past my hard-built shell and vow right then and there that no one will ever make me feel like this again.

Worthless.

Ugly.

Undeserving.

No matter what it takes; from this moment on, I will never allow this feeling to define me. Hell, it hadn’t been one I’d entertained in months. With the help of my friends and my therapist, I had come so far, and just like that—he easily knocked me right back down.

When I leave the lawyer’s office, the lunch crowd is starting to rush through the busy streets. My body is craving some food—not just because it’s well past my normal lunch hour, but also to help me emotionally cocoon myself. The desire to fall back on old coping methods is strong, but I push it away as I remember my vow back in the conference room. I walk past all the establishments I would normally jump right in line at; I rush past my favorite little Italian restaurant and keep going until I’m all but running down the busy New York streets. Bumping into people in my madness, I’m getting yelled at left and right. I don’t slow one bit; I just power walk through my gasps for breath. Finally, when I see my building ahead, I allow myself to slow.

The Logan Agency, my father’s pride and joy, is all the way on the fifty-seventh floor. Even through the long elevator ride up, stopping every few floors to let more people off, my breathing doesn’t return to normal.

It takes me a good ten minutes after sitting down at my desk before I’m able to breath without the tightness and stinging in my lungs.

“Willow, my coffee, now,” my father barks through the intercom. I look down at my phone and wonder, not for the first time, what would happen if I threw it at the floor-to-ceiling ‘wall’ that separates his office from where my desk sits outside his door. “And don’t forget, only three sugars this time,” he orders before slamming down the phone—severing the connection to my own intercom system.

This ends today, Willow, I think to myself as I mix in his sugar—just three packs—with the stirring stick. With each turn of my wrist, I solidify the vow I made earlier.

I will never, ever allow someone to get close enough to hurt me again. I will do everything possible to claw out of this heavy shell I’ve grown around myself.

I let the strength and motivation today’s events have given me sink in. The push I’ve needed to take the final steps toward making myself someone better. Someone I could like. But even with that determination coursing through my veins, all I feel is more and more hate. Hate for those around me. Hate for the way I allowed Brad and Ivy to make me feel one inch tall again. Hate for being so freaking weak I let myself fall down. Back to the person I used to be. A person I hate down to my very core.

No more.

I have nothing left to lose.

Nowhere else to go but up.

It’s time to finally be the Willow I can love.

Even if no one else can.

Six months later

“WILL, GET IN HERE, BABY!”

I roll my eyes as I continue to gather the nail polish and remover we’ll need and tossing them into the basket by my side.

“Willow Elizabeth! You don’t want to miss this fine-ass man!”

There really is no telling who my lust-sick best friend is talking about. Truth be told, there really isn’t a man Edward Hart doesn’t find bed worthy. I love Eddie, God do I, but I swear that man is incapable of thinking about anything other than sex.

“What are you watching?” I ask before setting down the large basket full of multiple nail polishes, cotton balls, and just about every other mani/pedi tool you could ever need.

“Oh! I like this color,” Eddie says in a whimsical tone.

“Honey, focus.” I laugh, patting his thick, muscular thigh.

Eddie stops painting his thumbnail—light pink, I should add—and darts his deep brown eyes toward the television before returning his focus to the task at hand. “Just you wait for it,” he mumbles, sticking his lip between his teeth and attempting to swipe his thumbnail with the pale pink polish.

“Kirk, are the rumors to be believed?” I hear an impossibly fake, breathy voice say from the corner of the room. Turning my head, I look over at the television and wait for the entertainment reporter to continue. “Surely, Mr. Hollywood royalty, Sexiest Man Alive at that, isn’t off the market for good?”

“If the rumors are to be believed, then yes, Kennedy, he most definitely is. Being spotted leaving a doctor’s office known for its specialty in high-risk pregnancies with none other than his rumored on-again, off-again girlfriend, Mia Post. Not even a week after the pair was seen relaxing on the sunny tropical shores of Tahiti, I might add.”

I watch in rapt fascination while they go on yammering about Kane Masters’ supposed ‘baby mama drama.’ My eyes widening and my ears sucking up every word. I’ve been obsessed with this man and any information I can find out about him since our run-in six months ago. Just thinking about how he made me feel on a day I thought could be nothing but horrendous causes my body to heat. He’s been a running fantasy. The star of all my self-induced ecstasy. My obsession.

“Rumors aren’t exactly solid truth, Kirk. Take for example how just earlier this year there was one flying around that his oldest brother, Kyle, had apparently separated from his supermodel wife, the stunning Jessica Deen.”

“Yes, well … I suppose that sometimes they aren’t exactly confirmed, are they?” Kirk laughs. The screen changes to an image of Kane with his two older brothers, Kole and Kyle. Just seeing them together is a reminder of the good genes that run in the Masters family. They’re a triple smack-down force for any woman.

Including me.

All well over six feet tall, dark brown hair that looks black in most of the tabloids magazines, and the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. You would have to be dead or blind not to have any one of them affect you. Kole, like Kane, decided to take the path of fame and fortune, and both of them went on to become hugely popular actors. The oldest, Kyle, wasn’t famous in his own right, but rather was well known because of his brothers—and the fact he married one of Victoria’s Secret’s top models. But even with all three of them rocking impossible good looks, it’s always been the youngest Masters brother who’s caught my eye.

In the days that followed our run-in, I’ve spent more days than I care to admit grabbing any tabloid magazine, entertainment report, or online article I could find about Kane Masters. His image and the scene forever burned in my memory have been the gasoline to my already burning fire of determination to become the Willow I am today.

I used him. Sure, it started out as fantasy and dreams … but it turned into me using him and everything he represents to drive myself toward the change I am today.

The picture of the Masters brothers changes and an image of Kane flashes on the screen, drawing me from my thoughts. I lean forward slightly, sucking in every single inch of his face. The same feelings I had when I was face-to-face with him resurface like a slap to my hibernating libido; same as every time I see his image.

His lightly tanned skin is darkened with an even more golden version of the tan he always carries. They continue to sift through various pictures of him on a sunny beach, his swim trunks hanging low on his hips, that sexy V on display, and those abs … good God, don’t get me started there. When they’ve displayed a million different poses of him just walking out of the surf, they settle on one of him taken at his last red carpet event. His burning blue gaze causes me to shift uncomfortably on the couch, knocking into Eddie’s knee. I hardly hear his hushed expletive because Kane’s penetrating gaze has me completely transfixed.

As if he’s looking right into my very soul, his eyes never waver from their connection with the camera. The lopsided grin that probably results in panties being dropped nationwide is in full force. I watch with bated breath as he runs one hand through his thick hair.

Could he be any more perfect?

“Yeah, maybe. If he turned that sinfully sexy scruff he’s rocking into a beard. That would probably throw his hotness levels over the edge and cancel out any negative traits he might have … therefore, perfection would be mastered.”

“Huh?” I question, not moving my eyes from the television.

“Sweetheart, has he rendered you stupid? You’ve been mumbling under your breath since beach picture four, which I might add was definitely fry your brain worthy, but you don’t see me over here acting like a moron. Well, I might have forgotten my name for just a brief second when that image appeared. There was no hiding the eggplant in his swim trunks. Bet he’s hung like a damn stallion.”

I roll my eyes, and with one last wistful sigh, I move my eyes from Kane’s image back over to Eddie—narrowing them instantly when I see him smirking.

“You aren’t funny.”

“Sure, I am.”

“No, you really aren’t. How are you not even a little impressed by everything that is Kane Masters?”

“Because he is one hundred percent unattainable dick for me, Will.”

“Yeah, well, he’s one hundred and fifty percent unattainable dick for me too, Eddie, but you don’t see that simmering down any of my hormones. God, how pathetic can I get.” His eyes get hard, but that doesn’t stop me. “Even if he was just some normal guy, could you ever see someone like him with someone like … me?”

“Willow,” he snaps in warning.

“Eddie,” I fire back. “Be serious.” I flap my arm out in the air but quickly drop it when I remember I’m wearing a tank top … the number one enemy of a chubby girl is the skin under her arms. I always feel like it’s just jiggling like crazy. No matter how hard I work out, I still feel like it grows daily.

“I saw that,” Eddie grunts, narrowing his eyes. The issues I have toward my body have been an ongoing sore spot for Eddie.

“You saw nothing.”

“You look beautiful, Willow. I wish you could see what I see when I look at you. Any man, Kane included, but yours truly excluded because you know … you have the wrong equipment, would be lucky to have you on his arm.”

I snort, pick up the remote, and turn the television off, saying good-bye to Kane’s handsome smirk and all the tingly feelings his face gives me. Why do I feel so upset about the news that he and his supposed girlfriend are expecting? I mean, it’s not as if I had a chance.

Sighing, I look over at my handsome best friend. “Eddie, people like me don’t get the handsome ones. We get the short, bald, pot bellied ones.”

He opens his mouth to respond, and I know from experience this is just the beginning of a fight; one I’m not interested in having with him tonight at all. I could only imagine how this conversation would be going if he knew about my run-in with Kane just months before. Tonight is about relaxing and celebrating his promotion out of my father’s company. He’s finally going to be living his dream. He’s grown such a reputation for excellence in his work that his demand has outgrown my father’s reach.

“When is Kirby getting here?” I ask, effectively letting him know the subject is closed. Conversation over. Done.

“Soon.” He sighs. “Something about Rob needed her to take Alli to soccer practice because he would be working late and she would be over as soon as she got Alli home and settled.”

“Right, well, let’s get started.” I pick up the pink polish he made a complete mess of his nails with and recap it. “Where’s the remover? You look ridiculous.”

Smirk back in place, Eddie and I resume our pampering and forget all thoughts of Kane Masters.

Well, kind of.

Not really.

An hour later, Eddie pops bottle number three of the most delicious Moscato d'Asti. Maybe it was our overly buzzed minds, or the fact we had covered both our faces in a mud mask, but when the door snaps open with a loud bang, we both scream. Hilariously, Eddie sounds more girlish than I do, causing me to double over in laughter.

Kirby walks in and stops dead in her tracks. “You two bitches started without me?”

I look over at Eddie, his lips moving in a weird pucker-like pout as his mask cracks around his lips. Each visible crack makes his pucker grow until he looks absolutely ridiculous. I’m sure my own mask is well beyond ready for me to wash off. Just seeing him make that face makes my lips twitch until I’m copying him. Both of us start laughing again when we see our faces contort as the mask cracks around our movements.

Clearly, we had started without her, but I stupidly look back over at my other best friend, still laughing. “Uh … no?”

Her violet blue eyes narrow more until they’re just tiny slivers. “Uh … yes! And you’ve so obviously gotten a head start on drinking since you two are drunker than a skunk. It’s a good thing I brought dinner,” she grumbles and finishes walking into my apartment, kicking the door closed with her booted foot. “I got Stanzo’s, Will. I know how much you love their eggplant parm.”

Well, isn’t that sobering.

I don’t let my inner cringing show; I give her a smile and walk over to give her a hug. “Awesome. Let me just go wash this off,” I tell her, walking to my bathroom. I’m going to need to run myself into the ground tonight to burn off Stanzo’s.

I closed and turned the lock before walking over to my vanity to stare into the mirror. With a quick twist of the tap, I continue to look into my eyes as the water warms and the mouthwatering scents of the best Italian mom and pop restaurant around fills my nose.

My breathing speeds up, and I do everything I can to mentally talk myself back up. Every Friday night, it’s the same. We have the best time during our ‘girls’ night’ fun of beautification, but it always ends with me having to talk myself into playing the part of carefree Willow. The one who hasn’t had to give up just about all the foods I used to love and replace them with salad just to shed some pounds. It’s so easy to hide this part of myself when we’re together at work, but here … it isn’t as easy to sweep things under the rug. They notice too much.

Just get in there, eat slowly, and wait for the wine to continue to flow. You can go to the gym when they leave and work it off.

I continue to repeat those words to myself as I bring a warm, wet washcloth to my face and start rubbing off the overly dry mud from my skin.

Small bites. Move the fork around, a lot. Small bites. Make sure their glasses stay full. Then move the food around some more. Gym later.

Tonight is one of the more challenging meals. Most of my favorite meal is easy to make disappear with a few calculated shifts of my fork, but because it’s basically one lump of food, it’s harder to make it look … eaten.

But if they’ve remained clueless this long, I doubt tonight will be any different.

Keep the wine flowing. Eat slowly. Small bites. Fork shifts. More wine. You’ve got this, Willow. It’s only one night a week of pretending. Tomorrow, it’s back to salad and water.

I take a few cleansing breaths, and with a small nod, I make my way out of the bathroom toward where my two best friends are laughing around the kitchen table.

God, that food smells like heaven. But I know better. Nothing good ever comes from indulging. It might smell like heaven, but it’s a package sent straight from hell. A package that has been my greatest weakness. But I’m in charge now. I’ve worked too hard to lose the weight I have to allow old habits to bring it all back.

“I grabbed you a plate, Will,” Eddie says, looking at me a little too long for my liking.

Slow bites, Willow. Just take it slow. Keep the wine flowing. You could probably last four hours at the gym and still be able to function tomorrow at work. Who needs sleep?

“Thanks, honey.” I sit in my seat and look over at Kirby, starting the first dance of my fork against the devil's temptation sitting in front of me. “How was soccer practice?” I question, picking a small sliver of my dinner and placing it between my lips. It takes everything in me not to moan at the explosion of flavors that hit my neglected taste buds.

“Good, good. Alli is a rockstar, like always.” She brags about her eight-year-old daughter.

“When’s her next game? I missed the first couple. Work’s kicking my ass,” Eddie complains.

“Yeah, Mister Hotshot Photographer. If you would stop shooting all those gorgeous men for two seconds, then maybe we would see you more often.” Kirby laughs, taking another huge bite of her food and making my mouth water a little more.

“It’s been insane, Kirb. I’m so glad we finally finished up with that campaign. I never thought I would be happy to have half-naked women back in front of my lens. Those men are the biggest divas of all.”

They continue to talk about work while I work on moving my food around and keeping their glasses filled. Of course, as I was concentrating so hard on making sure I put the minimum number of bites between my lips, I miss Eddie’s next question.

“I hear your sister is trying to get her job back. Know anything about that, Will?”

My fork drops, flinging the piece of food I had been shifting last in the air before it lands with a wet slap on the table.

“Excuse me?” I implore, ignoring the mess I just made.

“How did you not hear about this? Jesus, you sit outside your father’s office every day, Will! Have you been living under a rock?”

“Tell me?” I whisper. God, I know my father couldn’t care less about me, but I really thought we had been turning a corner when Ivy quit. Well, that’s a lie. But it felt better to be at work when I had just one person’s hate to deal with instead of two.

Eddie’s concerned gaze rolls over my face as he assesses the damage he knows this turn in the conversation is causing me.

“Just tell her, Eddie. She deserves to know so she can be prepared.”

“Right, well … it’s all rumors, of course. But I heard from Pam, who heard it from Stacy, who heard it from Janelle when she was filling in for you last week while you were on vacation, that your sister had a meeting with your dad. Apparently, when they finished, he said he would look forward to seeing her around the office next week. Which I’m assuming means tomorrow. Shit, I’m sorry, Willow. I thought for sure he would tell you.”

“Yeah? Because we have such a close relationship,” I snap, pushing my plate away. At least they won’t question my lack of appetite now.

Eddie looks at my plate before looking over at Kirby. They continue to have some silent conversation while I let my mind drift to what it would mean if Ivy were to come back to work.

We all work together at my father’s agency. He’s been a driving force in the modeling world for the last three decades. His offices, one of many, are headquartered in New York City, and he handles everything from models to photographers and everyone between.

Kirby, being one of those inbetweeners, works for my father as a well-sought-after makeup artist who he hires for various events such as on-location photo shoots, fashion shows, and here lately, television and movies. Luckily for my father, she’s happy to remain in New York and has no dreams of moving on to work on her own, like Eddie.

Eddie had been working for the Logan Agency as one of his top photographers, but because of his superior work and in-demand status, he’s recently branched out on his own. Thus, our little celebration of his ‘promotion’ and leaving the Logan Agency. I couldn’t be more thrilled for him and his new path in life. Even if I’m sad that when he leaves for some commitments he has in Europe, our girls’ nights will never be the same.

And me? I’m a glorified secretary for the owner, my father, but all that boils down to is I’m his gofer, coffee maker, and overall little bitch. Ivy had been working as his personal assistant, right hand, and general face of the Logan Agency before leaving to ‘start her life with Brad.’ Apparently, if rumors are true, her life got started and she’s ready to torment me a little more while getting all the gratification she can from being fawned over constantly at the agency.

And here I am, the stupid little girl who believed she could make her father love her during my quest for healing. If it weren't for Kirby still being there, I would have left when Eddie did last week and never looked back. But I’ve sunk the better part of my twenties into working for a man who hated me just so I could attempt to earn his love. Stupidly believing the impossible possible. And now, well … who would hire a twenty-nine-year-old woman with a dusty degree in business administration and the only experience under her belt being making coffee and answering the phone?

“Will? You okay, honey?” Kirby asks.

Giving myself a mental slap, I look over at her and give her my best smile.

“Yeah, just lost my appetite thinking about what that might mean for me.”

She looks over at Eddie and then down at my plate before looking back into my eyes. “You sure? You didn’t eat much,” she states; obviously, since I probably had maybe four full bites.

“Yeah. Ivy tends to do that to me. I’m going to go clean up.” I don’t wait for them to ask any more questions; I gather my plate and walk into the kitchen, scraping the food into the trash before washing off the plate.

Well … at least I didn’t have to pretend to actually eat it any longer.