Текст книги "The Billionaire and the Virgin"
Автор книги: Jessica Clare
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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 16 страниц)
“The man I fell in love with wouldn’t hurt women. He treats me like gold,” she said softly. “I loved the man who was kind and gentle to me, who held my hand and rescued me from creeps. Not the man who hires the creeps.”
“Marjorie, please.” He grasped her hand in his, pulled it to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. “I adore you. I adore everything about you. I’ve never met someone like you and I can’t wait to spend every minute with you. Give me another chance. Let me redeem myself in your eyes. Please. I want you with me. When I go back to California, I want you to come with me and give me another chance. I can change.”
Her heart was breaking at the pain in his handsome face, his smoky green eyes. How many times had she dreamed of having a man tell her that he loved her and wanted her? And how was it that Rob—who was so perfect for her in so many ways and made her feel so cherished and loved—could turn out to be so awful underneath? She felt utterly betrayed, and stupid . . .
And she just hurt, from head to toe. Her heart hurt the worst. “I can’t, Rob.”
“I don’t want to lose you. How much is Brontë going to pay you? I’ll double it. No, I’ll triple it. You can be my assistant. Two of mine are fucking idiots anyhow.”
She reluctantly pulled her hand from his, wanting to weep at how her body still wanted him even though her heart felt torn asunder. “I’m sorry, Rob. I have a rehearsal dinner to get to.”
“Marjorie, please.”
She shook her head. “Just . . . just leave me alone, okay?”
As she walked away on wobbly feet, she kept expecting him to come after her. She looked back, once, and saw Rob still sitting at the bench, a haunted expression on his face.
He could beg her to forgive him as nicely as he wanted, but in the end, she didn’t trust him. She didn’t know the real Rob. Did the real Rob go on moonlit swims with tall girls and take them out for ice cream simply because they wanted to spend time together? Did the real Rob want to impress a girl so much that he wore a sweater-vest and took her to bingo? Or was the real Rob a manipulator who wore a million faces and would say whatever she wanted to hear just so he could get into the wedding?
She felt sick.
Chapter Twenty-two
The reception dinner was lovely. Despite the fact that Marjorie sat alone, the seat next to her uncomfortably empty, her friends did their best to make her feel wanted and happy. She’d never felt more loved by her friends . . .
Which was ironic, because all she wanted to do was run up to her room and have a good crying session. She couldn’t, though, because she didn’t want to ruin Brontë’s happiness. So she smiled and acted like she was fine. She laughed and chatted and shook hands, and gave her small, shaky little speech at the rehearsal dinner. Her smile felt pasted on¸ but if anyone noticed her stiff, frozen look, they kept it to themselves.
And afterward, when all the women piled into several limos and headed out for the official bachelorette party, Marjorie was amongst them, doing her best to have fun. Somehow, she found a seat in the limo next to Brontë, who hugged her and didn’t say anything.
And Marjorie hugged her back, tears threatening.
They were quiet in each other’s arms for a long moment while the others chatted and drank around them. Then, Brontë leaned into Marjorie’s ear.
“I just want you to know,” she whispered, “That the manager told Logan that Mr. Cannon and his people—all of them—left the hotel earlier. You don’t have to worry about seeing any of them again.”
“Thank you,” Marjorie murmured woodenly. She knew Brontë was trying to make her feel better. And she supposed it should have made her feel better. Any more awkward confrontations were no longer something she had to worry about.
But she wasn’t any fun at the bachelorette party, and she ended up sitting at one of the back tables with pregnant Audrey, sipping water and listening halfheartedly to the other woman’s baby plans.
When she finally got back to her hotel room at three in the morning, she fell into bed and tucked her hands under her pillow . . .
Only to find one of Rob’s shirts. She’d slept in it last night and had worn it this morning to return to her room. It was a soft gray t-shirt, and when she put it to her nose, it smelled like sex and sweat and Rob.
Marjorie buried her face in it and burst into tears.
***
A wedding was no place for someone with a freshly broken heart, so Marjorie did the best she could to hide her misery. The good thing was that she never had a moment to herself. From the time she woke up the next morning, she was part of the wedding whirlwind. The bridesmaids had breakfast together again, and gifts were exchanged with the teary—but radiant—bride. Then, the women had hair and makeup done, last-minute fittings and stitchings into their gowns, and then they all took a limo to the far side of the island, where a massive white tent had been erected to shelter the wedding party as the others arrived for the outdoor wedding. The wedding itself would take place on a white pier built especially for the ceremony, with tiers of steps for the bridesmaids to stand on. A cobblestone path had been created through the sand and smoothed over for the high heels of the women, and the chairs for the guests were carved wooden benches placed in the sand with white and red umbrellas dotting the aisles.
It was a mixture of beach, extravagance, and wedding finery, and Marjorie had never seen anything like it. And yet, somehow, it fit Brontë and Logan perfectly.
Strains of Pachelbel began to float through the air, and pair by pair, a bridesmaid went down the aisle with a groomsman. First was tiny Angie with taller, lean Jonathan. Then, it was Marjorie’s turn to walk with Cade Archer, a man as gorgeous as he was kind. They emerged from the tent, Marjorie towering over him in her heels. She probably would have matched Jonathan’s height better, but for once, she didn’t care. If Rob had found her beautiful in tall heels—and for some reason, she believed that he had—then she knew she wasn’t the hideous storky monster she’d always envisioned. So when she went down the aisle with Cade, she walked proudly, her head held high, the white roses in her bouquet clutched in a hand that did not tremble.
They glided up the cobbled pathway down to the beach, then across the platform to the stairs. Cade led her to the spot where she was to stand, gave her a wink, and then moved to the opposite side to stand with the other groomsmen. Next up the aisle was sunny Maylee, white-blonde curls piled atop her head, beaming up at her fiancé, Griffin. The rest of the bridesmaids and groomsmen, Marjorie knew, were paired up in real life, and it was fun to watch them go down the aisle together, knowing they were picturing their own weddings. Maylee had a dreamy look on her face, while Griffin’s expression was carefully blank.
Next came Audrey and Reese, and Marjorie’s heart melted a little at the sight of them. Audrey was heavily pregnant, and her dress had been refitted half a dozen times before they’d given up on the mermaid skirt entirely and changed her dress to an empire waist, so her belly could expand as needed. Her shoes were flats, and she looked small and round and very very expectant. In contrast, the man at her side was utterly suave and gorgeous, his tuxedo fitting to perfection. They looked like an utter mismatch, except for the way he looked down at Audrey as she waddled down the aisle—like she was the most precious, perfect thing in the world. There was so much love shining from his eyes that it made Marjorie’s own gaze grow misty.
Then, Gretchen and Hunter appeared from the tent. Gretchen’s gown was a mirrored contrast to Marjorie’s own—white with just hints of red peeping from the skirts, and a red bouquet. The man at her side was . . . well, the kindest word was “disfigured,” Marjorie decided. One side of his face was twisted and reconstructed, and he looked extremely uncomfortable in front of the staring crowd. But as if she knew her own fiancé would be uncomfortable, Gretchen began to blow kisses, hamming it up for the crowd that laughed as she strolled up the aisle. Marjorie wondered how much of Gretchen’s obnoxious show was because of Gretchen and how much was to take people’s attention off of her man, who preferred quiet instead of crowds.
Once Gretchen swanned her way down the aisle, she gave Hunter a quick kiss and a slap on the ass before he returned to his designated spot as best man, which made the audience laugh again.
Then, the music changed, and all eyes went to the back of the path, anticipating the bride. Marjorie kept her gaze on Logan’s face—she’d seen Brontë in her all-white lace mermaid gown with a floor-length veil and a waterfall of red roses as her bouquet. She looked utterly gorgeous and serene, but what Marjorie wanted to see was Logan’s expression when he saw his bride coming down the aisle.
She knew the exact moment the bride appeared, just by watching him. Logan’s cool expression changed. His eyes lit up like stars, and then shone with pride. A small, private smile tugged at his mouth, his gaze completely and utterly focused on one woman. Marjorie felt the insane urge to cry again at the sight of it. Would she ever have someone look at her like that?
Rob did, her traitorous mind told her, but she shushed it. Rob was a liar and a horrible person. She couldn’t be with someone like that. Heart aching, she watched as Brontë glided up the aisle, and her father passed her hand to Logan’s. The groom still looked to be bursting with pride, and the bride radiant, as the minister began to speak.
For all the preparations and endless weeks of work, it seemed like the ceremony was a short one. Logan and Brontë had made their own vows, peppered in with quotes from Plato, Aristotle, and a few more of Brontë’s favorite philosophers. The rings were exchanged, and then Logan drew his bride against him in a long, sultry kiss that made Marjorie ache all over again.
Cheers exploded as the couple left the altar, hand in hand, and then everyone stirred to life once more. The wedding was over officially, but the party had just begun. And for a heart-weary bridesmaid, the day was far from done. Most of the guests returned to the resort to await the reception, but the bridal party remained for endless photo after endless photo. Marjorie’s smile began to ache and felt more and more forced. She wanted nothing more than to return to her room and hide, but this was Brontë’s day, and she was going to suffer in silence and enjoy herself for her friend’s sake.
Eventually, they headed back to the resort, where the reception was picking up steam. The beautiful, ten-tiered cake was the centerpiece of the table, and there was an open bar and a dance floor. Marjorie looked longingly at the open bar—how nice it would be to get sloppy drunk and forget her heartache!—but she skipped it and sat at her assigned table instead.
Logan and Brontë showed up, and the cake-cutting ceremony was held. Each delicately put a piece of cake into the other’s mouth, though Logan suggestively licked Brontë’s fingers in a way that made the bride blush. Marjorie began to re-contemplate the open bar.
“Is this seat taken?” A voice said.
Marjorie looked up and smiled at Cade Archer. It was hard not to like the guy. For one, he looked like an angel, all blond hair and blue eyes and gorgeous, friendly smile. She leaned over and examined the place card at the seat next to hers. “It looks like it’s taken by you.”
“What a stroke of luck,” he said, and sat down next to her, grinning. “How come you’re hiding back here in the lonely hearts corner?”
She gave him a halfhearted smile. “My date had to go to the mainland for a dialysis appointment.”
His brows drew together. “What?”
“My date was Dewey. A nice old man I picked up at the shuffleboard courts. He told me he loved weddings, but not as much as he loves his kidneys.” She smiled. “It’s all right. I’m bad company today anyhow.”
Cade smiled and sat next to her. “I’ll join you in the bad company ranks, then.”
“Where’s your date?” she asked politely.
His friendly smile faltered, and for a moment, he looked incredibly sad. “She had a sudden and last-minute change of plans.” He shrugged. “I should have expected no more from her, but I find I’m still disappointed.”
She knew the feeling. She knew she shouldn’t want Rob, but she still did. She still missed him, even though she knew he was bad news. Only time would heal this wound, and she hadn’t had a chance to properly grieve for her broken heart yet.
“It’s a beautiful wedding,” she said softly. “And Brontë and Logan look so very happy.”
“They do,” Cade agreed. “I’m thrilled for them—for all of my boys, actually. There’s quite a few weddings coming up and I’ll probably be a groomsman at all of them.”
“Always a bridesmaid, never a bride?” she guessed.
He gave her a quick flash of grin, and then gazed back out on the dance floor again, his thoughts far away. Again, she got the impression that he was just as achingly lonely as she was. After a long moment, he turned and gave her another smile that didn’t quite catch his eyes. “I suppose so.”
Poor Cade. He seemed almost as miserable as she was. She was poor comfort for a brokenhearted man when her own had been trampled to shreds.
Chapter Twenty-three
One Month Later
“This is a super cute apartment,” Brontë gushed, carrying in a box of donated linens. “How on earth did you find such a score on the Upper East Side?”
“Apparently by paying through the nose,” Marjorie teased, holding the door open for her. “And the bed is in one of the closets.”
Brontë giggled. “But hardwood floors! Come on. You have to admit that’s a bonus. And you have a window! Maylee didn’t even have a window when she moved to the city.”
“It’s pretty great,” Marjorie agreed, taking the box from Brontë and setting it down on her tiny, tiny kitchen countertop. “The city’s just a big adjustment from Kansas, you know? I’m pretty sure I could have gotten a huge house for this much back home.”
“Probably,” Brontë agreed, opening a closet door and peeking in. “Huh. That is the bed. Well, that’s fine. The location’s good and the apartment’s cute. If the rent’s high, the trade-off is that you’re living in the greatest city in the world. Seriously—you’ll have so much to do that you won’t have time to sit at home and mope.”
“I already know someone in the building,” Marjorie admitted. “Remember Agnes? She lives two floors down. She’s the one that got the landlord to pick my application out of all the others.”
“Oh! That’s so wonderful. You already have a friend here.”
“I do,” Marjorie said. “Agnes wants me to go to Friday night bingo with her and a few friends.”
“See?” Brontë beamed at her. “You’ll love it here. It’s a fresh start.” Her face grew concerned and she looked Marjorie over. “Speaking of . . . are you okay? How are you doing?”
Marj forced a smile to her face. “I’m fine. Really.”
“Are you sure? You’re just so . . . thin.”
Marjorie had heard that a few times over the last month. She’d lost a few pounds, unable to eat in her misery. And on a tall frame like hers, even a few pounds showed. “I’m fine. I just . . . was hurting for a while. I’m better now. I promise.” She hoped it sounded convincing.
Brontë’s concerned expression didn’t diminish. “He used you. I hate that. I wish I’d been paying more attention and not so caught up in whether or not the roses were the right shade of red.”
She waved a hand at Brontë’s concern. “It’s in the past. And I don’t know that he did use me. Sometimes I think he did and I fell for it, and sometimes I rethink our conversations and wonder.” She shrugged, picking up a pillowcase from a box and unfolding it. “Either way, it doesn’t matter. I can’t support the kind of man that he is and the business that he runs. I thought he was someone different. The truth . . . wasn’t what I thought. He’s someone I’m not sure I could ever be comfortable with and not question who I am.”
“You know,” Brontë said, opening the closet and fetching Marjorie’s pillow off of the hideaway bed. She crossed the room and handed it to her friend. “When I first met Logan, I didn’t know he was a billionaire. I just thought he was the manager of the hotel. I was a waitress, right? So when I found out he was a billionaire, I freaked out. I didn’t know if I could handle dating someone that was rich. Not just rich, but obscenely rich. And the more I fought against it, the harder it was for me to come to the realization that I was the problem, not him. It was my perception of what a billionaire would think of me, not the reality of what he felt. Could that be the same here? Is it a class thing?”
Marjorie shook her head. “It’s not the money. It’s that his business is set up to prey on girls with low self-esteem and to serve them up to men for money. I can’t respect someone that does that. It doesn’t seem right to me. Maybe I’m being overly moral or prudish, but it’s how I feel.”
“Plato said, ‘People are like dirt. They can either nourish you and help you grow as a person, or they can stunt your growth and make you wilt and die.’”
“That’s right,” Marjorie said. “I’m avoiding a growth-stunter.” At least, she was pretty sure she was. In the daylight hours, it was easy to hate Rob and all the ways he’d lied to her. At night, in her lonely bed, it was . . . not so easy, and she sometimes had regrets.
Regrets that Rob was who he was.
That she was who she was.
Mostly, though, she regretted not tackling him and dragging him to bed sooner. Which was probably the wrong thing to regret, but there it was. Out of all the things to miss, she missed his smiles and his gentle caresses the most. And that made her an awful person, didn’t it? Because she should have been thinking about how he lied to her, and how he profited off of women with low self esteem, and mostly, she just missed him.
“Just as long as you don’t avoid the people that nourish you,” Brontë said with a smile, bringing Marjorie back to the present. “And you know I’m here if you ever need someone to talk to.”
“I know.” Marjorie stuffed the pillow inside the pillowcase. “But I think for a while, I’ll just throw myself into work.”
“Now that’s music to my ears,” said Brontë. “I’ll be sure and give you plenty of it, then.”
***
Marjorie settled in to life in New York City slowly. Some things about the city were amazing, like the vast variety of restaurants and the subway tunnels that allowed you to get anywhere and everywhere without a car. She loved the shops and the museums and Central Park most of all. Some other things in New York City took a lot of getting used to—like buying groceries from a corner store instead of a supermarket, and the sea of taxis, and the endless, endless swarm of people. She’d never seen so many in one place in her life. She walked next to them on the streets, shared cabs with them, and heard them through the thin walls of her apartment. No one in New York City was ever alone, it seemed.
And yet with all the people in the city, Marjorie was intensely lonely. Maybe she was dumb and being a moony virgin, but she missed Rob. The time she’d spent with him made her feel more alive than she’d ever felt before. It was like someone had finally seen her—the real her, under all the layers—and was fine with all her parts.
Maybe that was why, after so briefly being part of a duo, it was so hard to go back to her normal solitary life. Why she wasn’t completely satisfied with spending her Friday nights at bingo with Agnes and her friends. Why going to a yarn store and picking out a new pattern was no longer all that exciting when she didn’t have anyone to show her creations to. Why lying in that small, twin bed that folded out from the closet felt like a death sentence.
She missed kissing. She missed hand-holding. She missed Rob’s laugh when she told a corny joke.
She missed Rob.
He was her first real love, and she’d fallen fast and fallen hard. It was going to take time to get over him, but the misery would eventually end.
But in the city full of thousands and thousands of faces, she could have sworn she saw Rob everywhere she went. It bothered her. She’d hear his laugh, and turn around and see no one there. She’d see a shirt that he’d worn and follow the owner, only to find it on the back of a completely different man. Out of the corner of her eye, she could have sworn she’d seen a dark-haired man that looked just like him get into a cab.
She’d confessed her “Rob-haunting” to Brontë, who’d given her a sad look and suggested she go on a date. She’d offered to set up Marjorie, but Marjorie went to a speed-dating round instead.
Every man there had been intimidated by her height. She’d walked away humiliated and full of despair. Not that she’d wanted any of the men. She’d compared them all, mentally, to Rob, and found them lacking. They lacked his smile, his protective instinct, his charm, his everything.
Marjorie supposed she’d just have to deal with being haunted by his memory for a bit longer. There were worse things than thinking you caught a glimpse of the man you’d loved for one brief shining moment in your life.
***
“More tea, Marj?” Agnes held up her floral teapot. “I know how you love your Earl Grey.”
Marjorie held out her dainty china teacup. “That would be wonderful, thank you.” She glanced around Agnes’s tiny flat. Pictures and knick-knacks covered every inch of surface, and the small apartment seemed utterly crowded with memories. “Your home is lovely. Mind if I look at your photos?”
“Not at all,” Agnes said, beaming. She poured Marjorie a new cup of tea and then picked up her phone. “I’m just going to send Dewey a selfie while you do that.”
Marjorie grinned and took a sip of her drink. “So you and Dewey are still a thing?” She’d introduced the two of them on the island, mostly because she wanted to spend more time with Rob. To her pleasure, they’d hit it off.
“Still a thing,” Agnes agreed. “He’s coming to New York for some lady time in two weeks. Doctor’s appointments are holding him back, but we manage with Facebook.” She looked at Marjorie proudly. “I’m grooming him for husband number seven.”
Heh. “I’d be more than happy to be a bridesmaid at your ceremony if you manage to get that one down the aisle.” Marjorie took another sip of tea and then set the cup down. She walked to the curio cabinet in the corner that was littered with picture frames. Some of the photos were in black and white, some in color, some of children, some of Agnes herself at varying ages. Fascinated, Marjorie gazed at the pictures and paused at one of a handsome sailor dipping a much younger Agnes on the dance floor. They looked so incredibly happy. “Who’s in this picture?”
Agnes moved over her shoulder and looked. “That’s husband number two. Kurt. Sweet man. Died in Korea two years after we married.”
Oh. She felt a painful squeeze at the thought of the vibrant, happy couple in the photo having such an unhappy ending. “I’m so sorry, Agnes.”
“It’s all right, Marj honey. I met a lot of good men after him, including Dewey.” She beamed. “Think, we both found love on the island!”
“Not me,” Marjorie said in a soft voice. She straightened and turned away from the picture. “Mine was a liar and a bad man.”
“Really?” Agnes looked fascinated. “What did he lie to you about?”
She confessed to Agnes the truth of Rob’s business—The Man Channel, and the Tits or GTFO crew. She told her about how she’d never had a clue until the day of the rehearsal dinner, and how hurt she’d been.
Agnes simply cocked her head and looked mystified. “He said that was who he was and that was the end of it?”
Marjorie shrugged. “He said he’d change for me and asked me what I needed him to do. He was just saying whatever he could to try and get me to change my mind about how I felt about him. But there was no way I could back down after learning that about him. I felt betrayed. Especially after those awful men tried to get me to take my top off for them.” She shuddered. “And to find out that he was their boss . . .”
“Huh,” Agnes said. “That’s so interesting. Do you read tabloids, honey? I find that they have the best crossword puzzles.”
Marjorie smiled. “Do they now?”
“Well, that, and pictures of shirtless men in Hollywood. I’m only human,” Agnes said with a cheeky wink. She moved to her kitchen area, humming, and found a stack of magazines and began to flip through them. “I’m pretty sure I have something here you’ll want to see.”
“I really don’t read the tabloids,” Marjorie told her. She’d poked through a few after getting back from the island, her curiosity burning about Rob. What she’d seen there had been awful. Pictures of him partying on a yacht in Ibiza with Victoria’s Secret models. Rumors of drug-fueled orgies. D-listers sharing “sex secrets.” After that, she was done. She didn’t want to learn anything more.
All that shit is fake, he’d told her. I’m not like that.
It was easier to believe in tabloid Rob than the one she’d met on the island, though.
Agnes wagged a finger at her and continued flipping through a magazine. “I promise you, you’re going to want to see this one. Ah, here we go.” She pushed against the spine of the magazine, ensuring it laid flat, and then handed it to Marjorie. “Read that.”
A gorgeous picture of Rob in a business suit, phone at his ear, stared up at her. She couldn’t help herself, she gave a little gasp and gazed down at the picture for far too long. He looked so good. Tanned, shaved, handsome, his collar popped open—no tie for him. Sunglasses covered his eyes, and she wished she could see them.
The picture next to him was of a sheikh of some kind, and she frowned. What did these two have to do with each other? Then, she read the bright yellow headline for the first time.
Billionaire playboy sells The Man Channel and all affiliated stations to Saudi prince in billion dollar deal! There was a smaller headline underneath that read AND THEN GIVES ALL THE MONEY TO CHARITY!
Her eyes widened. She picked up the magazine and began to read, frantic.
Nothing about handsome billionaire Robert Cannon, 32, has ever been predictable . . . except for his love of partying. It seems, however, that scandal’s favorite billionaire is turning over a new leaf. Reports coming out of boardrooms state that Cannon has sold the incredibly lucrative The Man Channel and its spinoff stations to a powerful Saudi billionaire for over a billion dollars. When asked why he was getting out of the cable industry, Cannon’s reps were notoriously closed-mouthed. One source says that despite the fact that ratings have been up, Cannon was unhappy with the business itself. She said that “someone opened his eyes, and he didn’t like what he saw.” VERY MYSTERIOUS.
It would seem that our secret source has the inside track, though. Not one week after the purchase of the channel went through, Cannon met with a famous women’s foundation and donated every dollar of the sale to charity. That’s right—every dollar of his sale of The Man Channel will now go to helping battered women and victims of rape.
We’ve tried to contact Cannon’s reps, but they’re not speaking. Could there be another angle to this fascinating story that we haven’t heard yet? If there is, we’ll get the scoop!
“Oh my sweet lord,” Marjorie whispered. She blinked, and then began to read the article again, looking for additional tidbits to glean.
“I’m surprised you haven’t heard anything about it, Marj. Don’t you ever google ex-boyfriends?”
She shook her head. “No! I . . . well, I did at first. Then I didn’t like what I saw.”
Agnes tapped one long, bony finger on Rob’s picture. “Call me crazy, but I think this sudden burst of charity has something to do with you.”
Marjorie didn’t know. Why hadn’t he said anything to her? She just stared and stared.
Rob had sold his network. He didn’t keep a dollar for himself. He was broke now . . . because of her. Oh, mercy. Her stomach gave a queasy lurch. What if he resented her now because he thought she’d forced his hand? Her head spun.
“Why don’t you take that article with you, Marj honey? It’ll give you time to read it later.”
There weren’t more than the two paragraphs, but Marjorie nodded and clutched it to her chest.
***
She was terrible at bingo that night. She’d promised Agnes that she’d go, but in reality, she’d just wanted to stay home and stare at that magazine article, and google more about Rob and this sudden sale of his business. Find out more details of why, and what he was doing now . . . and how broke he was.
Marjorie was sick at the thought of someone giving away a billion dollars just to please her. It went to a good cause, of course, but it was an unheard-of amount of money. An utterly upsetting amount.
So she tried to play bingo and chat with her friends, but she missed half the numbers because she kept googling things on her phone. She ended up handing Agnes her bingo card so she could fiddle with her phone more. As luck would have it, the card ended up winning a thousand dollars on the jackpot, and Marj insisted on giving it to Agnes.
The woman had been an incredible friend to her lately and it was a small thing to do. “Buy Dewey a ticket to visit you,” Marjorie had insisted, and Agnes’s smile lit up the bingo hall.
Eventually, the night ended and Marjorie and Agnes parted. Marjorie headed up the elevator a few more floors to her new apartment. Inside, all was utterly quiet—not even her noisy neighbors weren’t making a sound. She closed the door and locked it behind her, bolted it, then dragged her small bureau in front of it, because living alone in NYC didn’t make her feel all that safe. Then, she peeled off her high heels and headed over to the closet and tugged down the bed, and then flopped down on it to page through the magazine again.
Two paragraphs. She didn’t understand it. A rich, handsome billionaire had sold his business, lock, stock, and barrel, and he only warranted two paragraphs? That was ridiculous. She had torn through the magazine over and over again, looking for additional mentions. She picked through Internet sites but all the information and gossip was well over three months old. It seemed as if Rob’s people—if he still had any—were on lockdown and nothing was leaking to the media except for a few fluff pieces about the upcoming season of The Man Channel.
