Текст книги "About That Night"
Автор книги: Julie James
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
Kyle had to give her credit; it took skill—plus no heart and a serious abuse of the English language—to break up with someone in fewer than 140 characters. She didn’t even have the decency to send him a private message; nope, she’d just tweeted that sucker for anyone and everyone on Twitter to see. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Twenty minutes later, Daniela posted another tweet, this time with a link to a video of her making out with movie star Scott Casey in a hot tub.
That sucked.
Kyle felt like he’d been punched in the gut when he saw the video. He knew they’d had their problems, but what Daniela had done was just so…heartless. Particularly since she’d managed to make him look like a complete and utter fool. He could just see the tabloids:
STEAMY SAUNA SCANDAL!!!
Supermodel Cheats on Billionaire Heir
He worked in computers, he knew what would happen—the video would go viral within minutes. Between the wet supermodel in her skimpy bikini, the movie star, and the fact that the damn thing was even cinematically pleasing with the sweeping views of the Hollywood Hills in the background—everyone was going to see it.
Not on his watch.
Kyle grabbed the bottle of Scotch from the bar he kept in his home office and slammed a shot. And four more after that for good measure. One thought kept ringing through his head.
Fuck Daniela.
He may not have been a movie star, or the CEO of a billion-dollar corporation, or on the cover of Time and Newsweek, but he was not some also-ran. He was Kyle Rhodes, and he was a tech god. His specialty was network security, for chrissakes—he could simply hack into Twitter and delete Daniela’s tweets and the video from the site, and no one would ever be the wiser.
And he might have gotten away with the whole thing if only he’d stopped there.
But somewhere along the way, as he sat at his computer with his glass in hand, intoxicated and furious, staring at that tweet—that stupid it-was-fun-while-it-lasted-but-fuck-you of a tweet—he had a moment of Scotch-induced clarity. He realized that the true problem lay with social media itself, the perpetuation of a world in which people had become so wholly unsocial that they believed 140-character breakups were acceptable.
So he took down the whole site.
Actually, it wasn’t all that difficult. For him, anyway. All he needed was one clever computer virus and about fifty thousand unknowingly infected computers, and he was good to go.
Take that, tweeple.
After he crashed the site, he decided to cut loose. He threw his laptop, his passport, and a change of clothes into a backpack, hopped on a red-eye flight to Tijuana, and proceeded to get shit-faced drunk on cheap tequila for the next two days.
“Why Tijuana?” Jordan had asked him during the brouhaha that followed his arrest.
“It seemed like the kind of place a person could go without being asked any questions,” he’d explained with a shrug.
And indeed, it was that. In Tijuana, no one knew, or cared, who he was. He wasn’t a guy who’d been cheated on by his supermodel ex-girlfriend. He wasn’t an heir, a tech geek, a businessman, a son, or a brother. He was no one, and he loved all forty-eight hours of the anonymity—being the son of a billionaire had deprived him of that freedom long ago.
On the second night of his trip, Kyle had been sitting at the bar he’d made his home for the last two days, nursing what he had decided would be his last shot of the night. He’d never been on a bender before and, like most men, had found it to be an effective way to deal with his problems. But sooner or later, he had to get back to the real world.
The bartender, Esteban, shot Kyle a sideways look as he cleaned some glasses. “You think they’re going to catch this guy?” he asked in a heavy Mexican accent.
Kyle blinked in surprise. That was more words than Esteban had uttered to him in two days. He momentarily debated whether this query violated his no-questions policy, then ultimately found it to be acceptable. After all, it wasn’t like they were talking about him.
“What guy?” he asked.
“This tweeder terrorist,” Esteban said.
Kyle waved his glass in front of him. “No clue what a tweeder is, or how you terrorize one, but it sounds like a hell of a story, amigo.”
“Oh, you’re a funny guy, eh?” Esteban pointed to a television mounted to the wall behind Kyle. “Twee-ter, pendejo.”
Out of curiosity, Kyle looked over at the television and saw a Mexican news program. His four years of high school Spanish was little help; the female reporter was speaking too fast for him to understand what she was saying. But three words written in bold letters across the bottom of the television screen needed no translation.
El Twitter Terrorista
Kyle choked on his tequila.
Oh…shit.
He stared at the television screen with growing frustration as he tried to understand what the reporter was saying. It was tough, particularly given the fact that he was about six sheets to the wind, but he did manage to catch the words policia and FBI.
His stomach churned, and he barely made it out of the bar before he bent over and threw up seven shots of tequila, impaling his forehead on a heretofore unseen cactus in the process.
That sobered him up right quick.
In a panic, he made his way back to the cheap posada that had rented him a room on a cash, no-ID-required basis, and called the one person he could count on when shit-face drunk in Tijuana, bleeding from his forehead, and wanted by the FBI.
“Jordo, I fucked up,” he said as soon as she answered the phone.
Likely hearing the anxiety in his voice, she’d gotten right to the heart of the matter. “Can you fix it?”
Kyle knew he had to—ASAP. So as soon as he hung up the phone, he fired up his laptop and stopped the botnet’s denial of service attack.
There was only one problem: this time the FBI was waiting for him.
And they had computer geeks, too.
The next morning, sobered and chagrined, Kyle loaded up his backpack and took a taxi to the Tijuana airport. There was a moment before boarding, as he handed over his ticket to the Aeromexico flight attendant, when he thought, I don’t have to go back. But running wasn’t the answer. He figured a man needed to own up to those moments in life when he acted like a complete dickhead, come what may.
When the plane landed at O’Hare Airport, the flight attendants asked the passengers to remain in their seats. Sitting eight rows back, Kyle watched as two men wearing standard-issue government suits—clearly FBI agents—boarded the plane and handed over a document to the pilot.
“Yep, that would be me,” Kyle said, grabbing his backpack from underneath the seat in front of him.
The elderly Hispanic man sitting next to him lowered his voice to a whisper. “Drugs?”
“Twitter,” Kyle whispered back.
He stood up, backpack in hand, and nodded at the FBI agents that had stopped at his row. “Morning, gentlemen.”
The younger agent held out his hand, all business. “Hand over the computer, Rhodes.”
“I guess we’re skipping the pleasantries,” Kyle said, handing over his backpack.
The older agent yanked Kyle’s arms behind his back and slapped handcuffs on him. As they read him his rights, Kyle caught a glimpse of what had to be fifty passengers taking photos of him with their camera phones, photos that would later be blasted all over the Internet.
And from that moment on, he ceased being Kyle Rhodes, the billionaire’s son, and became Kyle Rhodes, the Twitter Terrorist.
Probably not the best way to make a name for himself.
They brought him to the FBI’s offices downtown and left him in an interview room for two hours. He called his lawyers, who arrived posthaste and gravely laid out the charges the FBI planned to bring to the U.S. Attorney’s Office. A half hour after his lawyers left, he was transferred to Metropolitan Correctional Center for booking.
“You’ve got a visitor, Rhodes,” the guard said later that afternoon.
They led him to a holding cell, where he waited at a steel table while trying to get used to the sight of himself in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs. When the door opened and his sister walked in, he smiled sheepishly.
“Jordo,” he said, his nickname for her since they were kids.
She hurried over and hugged him tightly, a somewhat awkward exercise with the handcuffs. Then she pulled back and thunked him on the forehead with the palm of her hand. “You idiot.”
Kyle rubbed his forehead. “Ouch. That’s right where the cactus got me.”
“What were you thinking?” she demanded.
Over the course of the next couple weeks, that was the question Kyle would be asked hundreds of times by friends, family, his lawyers, the press, and just about anyone who passed him in the street. He could say that it had something to do with pride, or his ego, or the fact that he’d always been somewhat hot-tempered when provoked. But in the end, it really came down to one thing.
“I just…made a mistake,” he told his sister honestly. He wasn’t the first man to overreact when he discovered his girl was cheating on him, nor would he be the last. Unfortunately, he’d simply been in the unique position to screw up on a global level.
“I told the lawyers that I’m going to plead guilty,” he said. No sense wasting the taxpayers’ money for a sham of a trial, or wasting his own money in extra legal fees. Especially since he didn’t have a defense.
“They’re saying on the news that you’ll probably go to prison.” Jordan’s voice cracked on the last word, and her lip trembled.
Hell, no. The last time Kyle had seen his sister cry was nine years ago after their mother’s death, and he’d be damned if he let her do that now. He pointed for emphasis. “You listen to me, Jordo, because this is the only time I’m going to say this. Mock me, make all the jokes you want, call me an idiot, but you will not shed a tear over this. Understood? Whatever happens, I will handle it.”
Jordan nodded and took a deep breath. “Okay.” She looked him over, taking in the orange jumpsuit and handcuffs. Then she cocked her head questioningly. “So how was Mexico?”
Kyle grinned and chucked her under the chin. “That’s better.” He turned to the subject he’d avoided thinking about since his arrest. “How’s Dad taking the news?”
Jordan threw him a familiar you-are-so-busted look. “Remember sophomore year, the night you climbed out the kitchen window to go to Jenny Garrett’s party?”
Kyle winced. Did he ever. He’d left the window open so that he would have easy access back in, and their dad had come downstairs to investigate after hearing a strange noise. He’d found Kyle missing and a raccoon eating Cocoa Puffs in the pantry. “That bad, huh?”
Jordan squeezed his shoulder. “I’d say about twenty times worse.”
Damn.
AFTER FINISHING his review of the evening news, Kyle made the mistake of checking his e-mail. His e-mail address at Rhodes Corporation had been accessible via the website, and though he no longer worked for the company—having turned in his resignation the day he’d been released on bond and thus sparing his father the awkwardness of having to fire him—the messages he received there were forwarded to his personal account.
Every day since he’d been released, he had received hundreds of messages: interview requests from the press, hate mail from some very angry people who seriously needed to take a break from Twitter (Hey @KyleRhodes—you SUCK, dickwad!!!!!), and oddly flirtatious overtures from random women who sounded a tad too interested in meeting an ex-con.
After checking to make sure there was nothing of actual importance he needed to respond to, Kyle deleted the entire lot of e-mails. He didn’t do interviews, the hate mail wasn’t worth answering, and although he may have been in prison for four months and thus in the midst of the longest period of celibacy of his adult life, he found it generally prudent to avoid having sex with crazy people.
His home phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. It was a double ring, indicating that the call came from the security desk in the lobby downstairs.
“Dex is here to see you,” Miles the doorman said when Kyle answered the phone, referring to Kyle’s best friend, Gavin Dexter. Dex was a frequent visitor to Casa Rhodes, and Miles had consequently dropped the “Mr. Dexter” routine ages ago.
“And he has several friends with him,” Miles continued with a note of amusement.
“Thanks, Miles. Send them up.”
Two minutes later, Kyle opened the door and found his best friend and a group of at least twenty people standing on his doorstep. The crowd let out a loud cheer when they saw him.
Dex grinned. “If Kyle Rhodes can’t come to the party, then the party will come to Kyle Rhodes.” He slapped Kyle on the shoulder, hearty man-style. “Welcome home, buddy.”
SOMEWHERE AROUND MIDNIGHT, Kyle finally got a chance to slip away from the crowd. His twenty-one guests had nearly tripled, and the penthouse was now packed.
Needing a few moments alone, Kyle stole away to his office, where he kept a small bar, and poured himself a glass of bourbon. He took a sip and closed his eyes, savoring the time before he needed to return to the party. To his so-called friends.
Not a single one of whom, except Dex, had once bothered to visit him in prison.
Metropolitan Correctional Center—or MCC, as the inmates referred to it—was conveniently located in the middle of downtown Chicago, and Kyle had been there for four months. Yet the entire time, only three people had come to visit him: his father, his sister, and Dex. For everyone else, he’d been out of sight, out of mind.
Apparently, Kyle Rhodes wasn’t the proverbial man of the hour when he lived in the Big House instead of a penthouse.
Those four months he’d been locked up had been a real eye-opener. At first he’d been angry, then later he’d decided it wasn’t worth the effort. He understood now the type of friends they were—people he had fun with and partied with, but it didn’t get any deeper than that. Going forward, he would never again make the mistake of thinking anything else.
So much had changed since the day Kyle had been arrested, and frankly, he wasn’t sure he’d processed all of it yet. Five months ago, he’d had a successful career at Rhodes Corporation, been dating a Victoria’s Secret model, and thought he had a circle of friends he could count on. Now he had no job, no prospects—since no one in his field would ever consider hiring a convicted hacker—and a prison record.
And it didn’t take a tech genius to see where he’d taken his first misstep.
Clearly, he and relationships did not mix well. His first—and only—real attempt at a serious commitment and he’d been cheated on, been publicly dumped, and ended up in prison. But as much as he was tempted to blame Daniela for everything, he couldn’t blame her for his own stupidity. He had been the idiot who’d hacked into Twitter; no one had made him do that. Nor could he entirely fault her for the demise of their relationship. Yes, she was a coldhearted bitch for the way she’d chosen to end things. But he’d realized, as he’d lie awake on those long, cold prison nights, that he’d only had one foot in the relationship from the very start. He’d convinced himself that he was ready for a commitment, but he—and half the free world—had seen just how wrong he’d been about that.
It was a mistake he would not be repeating. At least, not for a long, long time.
But there was an upside: he was awesome at noncommitment. Casual flings? He rocked that scene. Sex? He sure as hell had never had any complaints. So from now on, he was going to stay in his lane. Do what he did best. Trysts, flirtations, seductions, no-holds-barred monkey sex, it was all on the table. But any feelings deeper than a contented afterglow were out.
Just then, Dex popped his head into the office. “Thought you might be in here,” he said, stepping into the room.
Kyle held up his glass. “Came in for a refill. Figured it’s better than fighting through the crowd out there.”
“Is the party too much?”
Kyle pushed away from his desk and headed toward the door. Maybe the party was a little much, but he knew Dex meant well. “Not at all,” he fibbed with an easy grin. “The party’s just what I needed.”
“What do you think your friends at the U.S. Attorney’s Office would say if they got word of this?” Dex asked with a chuckle.
“Hey, it’s called home detention. I’m in my home, aren’t I?” And as long as he was abiding by the terms of his supervised release, he didn’t give a rat’s ass what the U.S. Attorney’s Office thought. In three days, he would be free and clear of them.
“Speaking of your friends…Selene Marquez just got here,” Dex said. “She’s asking about you.”
“Is she now?” Kyle knew Selene well—quite well. She was twenty-five years old, was a Chicago-based fashion model who did local work while trying to break into the New York scene, and had legs that reached the sky. Pre-Daniela, he and Selene had hooked up occasionally and had always had a good time.
“Maybe I should go say hello. Be the good host and all.” Kyle raised a curious eyebrow. “How does she look?”
“Well, if I were a sex-deprived ex-con who’d been locked in prison for the last four months, I’d say she looked pretty damn good.” Dex thunked his head. “Oh…wait.”
“That’s real funny, dude. Making jokes about a place where I lived in perpetual fear that I was going to get shanked.”
Dex’s expression changed, and he looked instantly chagrined. “Shit, I’m an ass. I shouldn’t have said…” he paused, noticing Kyle’s smile. “And…you’re totally messing with me, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Now, as an ex-con who’s been locked in prison for the last four months, I think I’ll see for myself how Selene looks.” Kyle grabbed Dex’s shoulder on the way out. “Thanks, Dex. For everything. I won’t forget it.”
Dex nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. They’d been friends since college, and nothing further needed to be said. “Any time.”
Kyle left the office and worked his way through the crowd. He found Selene in the foyer by the front door, looking spectacular in a silver minidress and three-inch heels.
She smiled when she saw Kyle approaching. “This is some party.”
Kyle’s eyes skimmed over her. “That’s some dress.”
“Thanks, I wore it especially.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a husky whisper. “Maybe later, I can show you what’s underneath it.” She slid past him, her hand brushing suggestively against his, and headed into the party.
Kyle looked over his shoulder, watching the sway of her hips as she walked away.
This was how things should be. Simple. Easy. No messy feelings or entanglements.
He may not have figured everything out since getting out of prison, but he at least knew that much.
Four
RYLANN HAD NEARLY finished unpacking her suitcases before she realized that she’d been hanging her clothes in only half of the closet.
Clearly, her subconscious needed to get with the program.
Her new Chicago apartment came with exactly one of everything: one bedroom, one den, one walk-in closet, one parking space, one set of dishes, one toothbrush, and, most important, one owner. There was no other half.
She grabbed several of her suits off the top rack and hung them in the empty side of the closet. Then she thought they looked sad and pathetic all by themselves, so she stuffed some sweaters on the rack above them. Then her yoga pants and workout gear.
Still not enough.
She hurried back into her bedroom, where a suitcase lay open on the queen bed, and pulled out two black cocktail dresses that were her standard attire at work-related evening events. Back in San Francisco, she’d been active in the California bar association—she’d even served on the ethics committee—and as part of that she’d often attended cocktail parties and dinners with the movers and shakers of the city’s legal community. As one of San Francisco’s assistant U.S. attorneys—prosecutors who handled federal crimes and were considered to be among the most elite trial lawyers in the criminal justice system—it was a circle she had moved comfortably in.
But she was finding new circles these days. That was, after all, what this move to Chicago was about.
Rylann hung the cocktail dresses on a rack next to her suits and stepped back to survey the results. With the eclectic mix of sweaters, suits, workout clothes, and dresses, it wasn’t the most organized closet she’d ever seen, but it would do.
Twenty minutes ago, there’d been a brief moment in her unpacking when she’d faltered a bit. She’d stumbled upon the dress, the scarlet V-neck dress she’d been wearing on the night of The Proposal That Never Was, a dress that she probably should’ve burned for its bad karma except for the fact that it made her chest look a full size bigger. Bad karma or not, that was a pretty magical dress.
Besides, Rylann doubted that Jon, her ex-boyfriend, ever got misty-eyed in his Rome apartment over the clothes he wore on their last night as a couple, so why should she? In fact, given their complete lack of contact over the last five months, she’d hazard a guess that he didn’t even remember what he’d been wearing.
Rylann paused, suddenly realizing that she didn’t remember what he’d been wearing, either.
Yes. Progress.
She had a six-month plan to get over her ex and was pleased to see that she was on schedule. Actually, she was ahead of schedule—she’d slotted in two days for a temporary relapse after her move to Chicago, but so far she appeared to be doing just fine.
Dark gray suit, light blue shirt, the striped tie she’d bought him “just because” the day after they’d moved in together.
Damn. She did remember what he’d worn that night.
Per her six-month plan, she was supposed to be forgetting details like these. The way that same lock of hair stuck out from the back of his head every morning. The gold flecks in his hazel eyes. How he’d squirmed in his seat when he’d said he didn’t know if he wanted to get married.
Actually, she’d probably remember that particular detail for a long time.
They were having dinner at Jardiniere, a romantic restaurant in downtown San Francisco. Jon had planned the dinner as a surprise, not giving her any clues. But when they’d been seated and he’d ordered a bottle of Cristal champagne, she’d known. True, they both enjoyed wine, and had bought nice bottles of wine and champagne in the past, but Cristal went beyond their usual splurge. Which could only mean one thing.
He was going to propose.
Perfect timing, had been Rylann’s first thought. It was September, which meant she’d have nine months to plan a June wedding. Not that she particularly cared about June, but there were work issues to think about: two of the female assistant U.S. attorneys in her office had just sprung the news that they were pregnant and planned to be off on maternity leave until May. If she and Jon got married in June, after the other AUSAs returned to the office, she’d be able to take two full weeks off for her honeymoon without feeling guilty about sticking someone else with the extra caseload.
After the waiter had poured their champagne, Jon clinked his glass to hers. “To new beginnings,” he said with a mischievous look.
Rylann smiled. “To new beginnings.”
They each took a sip, then Jon reached across the table and took her hand. As always, he looked handsome in his suit and with his dark hair perfectly styled. On his wrist he wore the watch she’d bought him for his last birthday. She’d spent more money on the gift than she’d intended, but he’d seemed oddly down about turning the big three-five, and she’d decided to splurge to cheer him up.
“So there’s something I want to ask you.” He stroked her fingers with his thumb. “You know that this last birthday got to me. Since then, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the direction my life is headed. And even though I know what I want, I think I freaked out because it’s such a big step.” He paused and took a deep breath.
Rylann squeezed his hand reassuringly. “You’re ner-
vous.”
He chuckled. “A little, maybe.”
“Just come out with it,” she teased. “We already have the champagne.”
With that, Jon looked into her eyes.
“I want to move to Italy.”
Rylann blinked.
“Italy?” she repeated.
Jon nodded, the words coming easier for him now. “A spot opened up in our Rome office, and I put my name in.” He threw out his hands and laughed like a kid who’d just been told he was going to Disney World. “Italy! How great is that?”
“That is…something.” Rylann did a mental headshake, trying to make sense of things. Jon was a partner at McKinzey Consulting, and he’d worked his butt off to get there. At times, recently, he’d seemed a bit apathetic about his job, but not once had he ever mentioned transferring to Italy.
“What brought all this on?” she asked, feeling as if she were talking to a casual acquaintance and not the man she’d been dating for the last three years.
Jon took a hearty sip of champagne. “It’s been on my mind for a while. I don’t know…I’m thirty-five years old, and I’ve never really done anything. I went to school; I got a job. That basically sums up my life.” He gestured offhandedly to her. “Same with you.”
Rylann felt a flash of defensiveness at that. “I moved to San Francisco after law school, not knowing a single person out here. I’d say that was pretty adventurous.”
“Adventurous?” Jon scoffed. “You moved here because you’d landed a clerkship with a federal appellate judge. Besides, that was seven years ago. Maybe it’s time for a new adventure.” He grabbed her hand again. “Think about it. We can get an apartment near the Piazza Navona. Remember that trattoria we found there, the one with the yellow awning? You loved that place.”
“Why, yes, I did. As a nice place to visit on vacation.”
“And here comes the sarcasm,” Jon said, sitting back in his chair.
Rylann stopped another quip from rolling off her tongue. Fair enough—sarcasm wasn’t going to help the situation right then. “I’m just trying to catch up here. This Italy plan seems to be coming out of left field.”
“Well, you had to know something was up, with the champagne and everything,” Jon said.
Rylann stared at him. Wow. He really had no clue. “I thought you were going to propose.”
The silence that followed had to be one of the most awkward and embarrassing moments of her life. And suddenly, she knew that Italy was the least of their problems.
“I didn’t think marriage was something you wanted,” Jon finally said.
Rylann pulled back in disbelief. “What do you mean? We’ve talked about getting married. We’ve even talked about having kids.”
“We’ve also talked about getting a dog and buying a new couch for the living room,” Jon said. “We talk about a lot of things.”
“That’s your answer?” Rylann asked. “We talk about a lot of things?”
Safe to say the sarcastic tone was back.
“I thought you were focused on your career,” Jon said.
Rylann cocked her head. Boy, she was really learning all sorts of interesting things tonight. “I wasn’t aware that having a family and a career were mutually exclusive.”
Jon shifted awkwardly in his chair. “I just meant that I figured marriage and kids were something we’d get around to later. Maybe.”
Rylann caught the last word he’d added in there. True, she had focused on her career over the last seven years, and didn’t have any regrets about that. Nor, frankly, did she plan to stop being career oriented. And as much as she typically liked plans, she hadn’t felt the need to rush things with Jon. She didn’t have a specific timeline in mind; she’d simply assumed that they would get married and start a family somewhere in her midthirties.
But now, seeing the way he toyed uncomfortably with his champagne flute, she realized this had become an “if”—not a “when”—situation. And she wasn’t willing to settle for that.
“Maybe?” she asked him.
Jon waved his hand, gesturing to the crowded restaurant. “Do we really need to have this conversation now?”
“Yes, I think we do.”
“Fine. What do you want me to say, Ry? I’ve been having second thoughts. Marriage takes a lot of work. Kids take a lot of work. I already kill myself at my job. I make good money, but I never have time to enjoy it. I’m not going to quit or take a leave of absence in this economy, so this transfer seemed like the perfect opportunity to do something for myself.”
He leaned in, his expression earnest. “Don’t make a bigger deal out of this than it has to be. I love you—at the end of the day, isn’t that all that truly matters? Come with me to Italy.”
But as Rylann sat there, staring into his dark hazel eyes, she knew it wasn’t that simple. “Jon…you know I can’t go.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, I’m an assistant United States attorney. I’m thinking they don’t have a lot of job openings for those in Rome.”
He shrugged. “I make plenty of money. You don’t need to work.”
Rylann’s gaze sharpened. “If I’m supposedly so focused on my career, that’s not really going to sell me on this trip, is it?”
Jon sat back in his chair, saying nothing for a moment. “So that’s it?” He gestured angrily. “Going to Italy doesn’t fit into your ten-year plan or whatever, so you’re just going to choose your job over me?”
Actually, it was a twelve-year plan, and scrapping everything to move to Rome with no job and no prospects definitely wasn’t in it, but Jon was conveniently sidestepping the issue. “Moving to Italy might be your dream, but…it isn’t mine,” she said.
“I’d been hoping it could be our dream.”
Had he now? Rylann rested her arms on the table. Somewhere along the way, this had begun to feel like a cross-examination. “You said you asked for this transfer. Did you tell them you needed to discuss it with me before you committed to going?”
Jon met Rylann’s eyes with a look of guilt she recognized well, one she’d seen numerous times on the faces of the criminal defendants she prosecuted.
“No,” he said quietly.
She rested her case.
NEARLY SIX MONTHS after that night, Rylann was sitting on her living room floor, unpacking a box that contained half of the Villeroy & Boch dinnerware she and Jon had bought for entertaining. Jon had insisted she have the entire set of ten, but as a final “screw you and your pity,” she’d taken only her fair share. Now, however, she was wondering what the heck she was going to do with an incomplete set of china.
