CHAPTER ELEVEN
DUFFY
It was on my last day at WNT when I decided it would be a great time to have a full-fledged mental breakdown.
Mercury must’ve been in retrograde. Reversing at a trillion miles an hour, more like. Everything that could have gone wrong had done so. And everything that couldn’t—still did.
BJ didn’t call me from Kathmandu, even though he had promised to give me a sign of life when he landed. It had been three days since I’d dropped him off at the airport, which meant, according to our no-contact rule, the next time I’d hear from him would be when he came back home.
Mum did call, but I wished she hadn’t. She was panicked because Kieran (a.k.a. the Traitor Who Shall Not Inherit a Penny Should I Ever Become Rich) told her BJ left me, which wasn’t even (entirely) true.
Then there was work.
Everybody seemed to fuss over Gretchen like they were losing a limb, not a high-maintenance anchorwoman. No one paid attention to me, even though I was her highest-ranked assistant. I knew exactly why. I was the snotty, neurotic go-getter who frowned upon those who came to work to socialize and who skipped social functions in favor of trying to impress BJ’s family. To be honest, I hadn’t thought I’d need to be there for much longer. Sure, I’d stay gainfully employed until after my wedding to BJ, but as soon as I was pregnant with my first child, I’d quietly quit to raise the next generation of Abbotts.
Only now there was no BJ, no wedding, and definitely no babies.
Gone was the dream to take two years off to focus on building my family and soul-search what I wanted to do for a career.
Meanwhile, Gretchen’s office overflowed with flowers, chocolates, and fluffy teddy bears, to the point I had to start carrying them out and giving them away to randoms outside the building.
I marched several times in and out of her office, removing chocolate and fruit baskets. Gretchen explained that she hated the pollen in flowers and loathed having sweets around her because she was doing keto.
She sat at her desk with the air of a saint who’d just been appointed by the pope, receiving visitors. You’d think she herself was going to be the president of the United States, not just his mouthpiece.
Gretchen and I still hadn’t broached the subject of Riggs, but she stopped glancing at me anxiously, like I was about to spill her secret during staff meetings. From this, I deducted she knew that Riggs and I had entered into an arrangement of sorts and felt confident I’d keep my mouth shut. Which could explain why she’d gone back to treating me like I was a piece of gum that was stuck onto her Jimmy Choos.
I wondered if Gretchen and Riggs had slept together since I caught them red handed. Not that it mattered.
As it turned out, I got my answer anyway. It was on my fifth run to her office. I opened her door, then stopped abruptly. Riggs was in the room, sprawled on the edge of her desk lazily. My heart dropped to my knickers, which, unfortunately, were already dampening at the sight of him.
He wore cargo pants, an asymmetrical smirk, and an army-hued henley that clung to each of his muscles like a Harry Styles fangirl. It felt weird, seeing him not in the confines of my flat. A wild, wanton thing.
Gretchen had her hand on his arm. They stood close. Too close to not be sleeping together anymore. And I couldn’t help but remember how they were fused together as he shagged her raw against her wall. How his arse muscles contracted with each thrust. The hedonistic, sensual look on his face as he tipped his head back, displaying his square jaw . . .
Stop this right now. Think about something else. Something sad. BJ being a terrible boyfriend. Poverty. Climate change. J.Lo taking Ben Affleck’s name like it wasn’t 2022.
I didn’t know why, but Riggs was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Come on! The woman was married. How many men did she need? Didn’t she know that there was a shortage? For every hundred women in the US, there were only 97.95 males! This was pure greed. Attractive men weren’t a hot dog eating contest. You didn’t have to shove as many as you could fit into your mouth to win a trophy.
Plus, I thought irrationally, he was my future husband.
“Ugh, Duffy.” Gretchen didn’t bother stepping away from Riggs, her tits plastered against his chest. “Barging in without knocking again. Don’t you ever learn?”
Do not kill your boss, Daphne Markham. You are not meant for a life in prison.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, gathering more chocolate and flowers in my hands. I kept my head down, refusing to make eye contact with Riggs. “Didn’t realize you had company.”
“Knock, Duffy, knock. It’ll do you wonders.” Gretchen flipped her blonde hair patronizingly before dragging her manicured fingernails down Riggs’s chest. “I’m all packed up and ready to leave. You coming to my place?”
A box of chocolate fell from the mountain in my hands. I picked it up, flustered, letting out a pathetic whimper. I hated that he was seeing me like this.
He clamped her wrist and removed it from his chest. “Rain check. I gotta check out some new photography equipment in Brooklyn.”
“I’ll come with.” She grabbed her purse, rummaging through it to disguise her embarrassment at his blatant rejection. “I don’t have to head back home until later tonight.”
“No need. I’m meeting Christian afterward.”
“You’re choosing your boring, married friend over me?” she asked incredulously.
“That he’s boring is unfortunate, but I like his wife more than you, so.”
Ouch.
Gretchen obviously didn’t like his brush-off and decided to direct her wrath at me.
“Oh, you’re still here.” She scrunched her nose. “Well, don’t just stand there. Your last shift isn’t over yet. Offer my guest a drink.” She motioned to Riggs.
God, I hated her. But not enough to cock up my future job prospects by giving her the golden opportunity not to write me a glowing reference letter.
“Would you like something to drink, Riggs?” I asked as blandly as possible, balancing her farewell gifts in my arms.
“It’s Mr. Bates to you.” Gretchen rested her chin on her knuckles demurely. “Now’s a good time to remember we’re just doing you a favor. It’s not like he—”
“I’ve never seen a female pissing contest before, but I have to say, I’m not a huge fan,” Riggs interrupted, throwing Gretchen a put-off look. “Anyway, I just came to say goodbye before you fly to DC. Hey, Poppins, need me to pick something up for dinner?” He threw me one of his sultry glances. Or maybe it was just his default sexiness. His existence alone probably encouraged ovulation.
Goodbyewas probably code for loads of sex. Well, they could have sex until their genitals fell off and their crotches had carpet burns. I didn’t care, as long as it wasn’t under my roof.
“I’m fine,” I bit out to Riggs. “I’ll let you two . . . goodbye privately.”
I removed myself from the premises as quickly as humanly possible. I was marching to the elevator when I realized I’d forgotten my employee card on Gretchen’s desk.
Though seeing those two again was the last thing I wanted, I couldn’t walk in and out of the building freely without it. With a groan, I made a U-turn. The door to her office was slightly ajar. Just enough for their conversation to drift to the hallway and into my ears.
“. . . no one even gave her a card, Riggs. I always knew she was stuck up, but wow, the girl is unlikable.”
My heart fell to the pit of my stomach like a ten-ton stone. They were talking about me. Agony ripped through my chest, which I couldn’t make sense of, because none of this came as a surprise.
I knew what people thought of me. That I was a slow-burn gold digger, an overachieving she wolf; no one had ever bothered to ask why I was the way I was. People just wrote me off. Put me in the stereotypical box and shelved me in the Do Not Befriend category.
Riggs answered in a deep, low tone, but I couldn’t decipher his words.
Gretchen sighed in response. “All I’m saying is, make sure you don’t get too involved with her. She’s so daunting.” I dug my teeth into my lower lip until it bled. “And . . . between you and me?” Gretchen dropped her voice an octave. “Not the most trustworthy employee. There are a few designer items missing from my wardrobe.”
An electric shock of rage sizzled through my body. How dare she? I’d never stolen as much as a pencil from her desk. She’d trusted me with her apartment code. With her credit card. With her children!
“Did you get her anything?” Riggs asked, ignoring the heavily implied theft claim.
“Me?” the cow replied. “Well, it’s not like I had time, between Lyric’s birthday and the move to DC. And besides, she doesn’t deserve it.”
There was a pregnant pause.
“Don’t look at me like that! Might I remind you she is blackmailing us?”
I decided then and there to do the first uncalculated thing in my life since I’d been born. I burst straight into her office, not bothering to close the door behind me. I dumped her gifts onto the floor, bowing deeply with a flourish.
“Here, Your Majesty. Want to know why nobody gave me a card?” I shrieked, knowing full well I probably looked as sweaty and deranged as I felt. “Let me tell you why. Because of you, Gretchen. You made me the villain in this studio. True, I was never the most approachable human being to begin with, but you insisted I fire any assistant that was too tardy, too loud, too slow, too blonde, too much bloody competition!” My voice shook, much like the rest of my body. Behind me, a cluster of WNT employees gathered, peeking curiously. I saw them through the glass walls bracketing Gretchen’s office.
“When you needed someone to be told off, you sent me to do it. When the stylist made you look like Big Bird, I was the one who had to write her a scalding review. Whenever you had an oopsie on air, you blamed it on me.” I stubbed my chest with my finger. “I was the only executive assistant at WNT who never socialized with anyone else, because you forbade it. You were so scared I’d spill one of your trade secrets, you would barely let me grab a coffee with the runners!”
I knew I shared some of the responsibility as to why I was about as popular as Neapolitan ice cream within WNT hallways. I never made a genuine effort, but to pretend the fault fell squarely on my shoulders was ridiculous.
“Don’t blame me!” Gretchen tossed her hands up, her roar very nearly throwing me across the room. “Hold yourself accountable for the way people perceive you. You’re in charge of your own behavior.”
“Oh, I am to blame!” I laughed shrilly. “I’m beyond responsible for doing your ugly bidding. You molded me into your perfect little machine.” I pointed my index finger at her face. “Knowing I couldn’t quit because the channel was sponsoring my visa. You abused your power.” I laughed incredulously. “No wonder you ended up in politics.”
The silence that followed was so loud I swore I could hear people in Maine asking one another what they should have for supper tonight. I peered behind my shoulder. There were at least fifty WNT employees behind me, their phones directed at Gretchen and me, recording my public showdown.
Time to do something, Duffy. Anything at all. Whenever you’re ready. Preferably this year, though.
It was obvious Gretchen was too stunned to produce words. Not that I wanted her to. I couldn’t believe I’d behaved so commonly. So crudely. I’d always measured every action of mine carefully, desperate to be a Goody Two-Shoes.
Do something. Right. Now.
I snatched a box of Godiva from her desk and waved it in my boss’s face. “You don’t deserve this good chocolate. I’m taking it with me. This is my goodbye present. My ‘Thank you for your service, Duffy.’ Don’t forget to check out all of the thirty-five toilets in the White House. We all know how full of shit you are!”
Okay, maybe not that.
Nonetheless, the deed had been done. And so, committed to my public fall from grace, I tornadoed out of her office, after which I anticlimactically waited for the lift for three minutes under excruciatingly dumbfounded gazes before it pinged open.
To make matters worse, Gretchen’s assistant number two, Billy, appeared next to me, a pile of flower bouquets in her hands. She, too, was helping my boss with getting rid of all the goodbye presents.
“Hi, Duffy.” She pushed her reading glasses up her nose.
“Hey, Billy.” I rubbed my forehead tiredly.
“There’s something you need to know,” she said in a hushed voice when we entered the lift and the doors closed. I angled my face toward her. Had I spoken the mind of the entire office? Were people cheering for me? Had I become her role model? Hope bubbled in my chest.
But Billy looked unnaturally pink and insisted on staring at a spot above my head. “I think you got your period. When you made that speech? There was a red stain showing.”
I collapsed on the stairway leading from the WNT building, then proceeded to stuff my face with Swiss chocolate I couldn’t even taste and was already regretting.
I was into my seventeenth truffle when someone plopped down beside me. A large someone. A tall and muscular someone who smelled like wild woods and leather and sex.
Someone I really didn’t want to talk to right now.
“So.” Riggs reached to steal a Black Forest truffle before popping it between his lips. “When’s the next show? I didn’t even have time to make it to the concessions.”
“Ugh.” I hiccuped into my chocolate box. “I’m mortified. This is the first time this has happened to me.”
“That’s supposed to be my line.”
“That’s your pep talk?” My head shot up. “A sexual innuendo?”
“Well, now that I know I’m being graded for it . . .” He took another truffle, sucking on the cherry-jam topping. “How about this? ‘Tomorrow is another day. The best days of your life are still to come. There is no such thing as bad publicity. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Our biggest breakthroughs often come after the darkest times.’ How am I doing so far?”
I glared at him with open annoyance. “You sound like my Pinterest inspiration board.”
He chuckled softly. “You okay, Poppins?”
“No. Clearly, I’m never going to be okay.” Wasn’t he there a second ago, when I’d annihilated my entire reputation and career? “I made a complete eejit out of myself. I should just move back to England and change my identity.” I covered my face with my hands.
“Yeah, that’s not gonna fly.” He ribbed me. “You owe me a marriage.”
“You’ll have plenty of eligible women to choose from,” I said, realizing I was probably right. He was handsome and worldly and oozed big-dick energy. Not everyone wanted to marry a walking, talking wallet.
“But I don’t want an eligible woman. I want an unhinged one who yells at her boss and laminates random documents and arranges her salad dressings by date, fat percentage, and list of ingredients.”
Well, excuse me for not wanting to eat my greek salad with blue cheese dressing. Not all of us thrived in chaos.
“There’s a fine line between insanity and genius,” I reminded him primly.
“And you straddle it like a seasoned stripper.” His aqua eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Everyone must think I’m mental.” I felt my lips wobbling and knew I was close to tears. More than anything, I was gutted to be comforted by my boss’s lover. No one promised me he wouldn’t go straight to her afterward and tell her about this pathetic scene.
“And you care about what people think because . . . ?” He elevated an eyebrow.
“Social standing equals power.”
“Not giving a fuck about what people think equals power,” he corrected me, tapping the tip of my nose as if I was an adorable fawn. “And right now you’re choosing to be powerless. Change that, Poppins.”
“I still want to run away and change my name.”
He stroked his chin. “Would you consider Desiree?”
This was the second time he’d brought up this name.
“Why on earth would I—”
“Got your name wrong accidentally in front of my boss.”
“You cad.” I gasped. “We’ve been living together for—”
“Relax, it was before we moved in together.” He waved a flippant hand. “It’s all different now. I know everything about you.”
“You do not.”
“Try me.”
Normally, I’d pass. But my other option was sobbing into a box of chocolate on the stairway of my previous workplace, and I was eager to cap my embarrassment quota for the decade.
“What’s my full name?” I quipped.
“Daphne Helen Marie Markham.”
“Okay. That’s on my gym membership on the fridge. Favorite biscuits?”
“Digestives.”
That was easy, though. They were the only kind I kept in the flat.
“Wardrobe quirk?” I wanted to see if he noticed I color coordinated my dresses with my purses.
“You never wear underwear.” He grinned winningly. “Which I approve of, by the way.”
“Oi, of course I do!” I slapped his thigh. Ouch. Was he made out of iron?
“Then how come they’re never in the washing machine?”
“I wash them by hand. They’re delicate.” I fisted a couple of truffles, then shoved them into my mouth and chewed.
“Just like you,” he said sarcastically. “By the way, your teeth are brown from the chocolate.”
I opened my mouth, spitting the half-chewed truffle back into the box, horrified.
His jaw pulsed. “You’re doing this again.”
“Doing what?”
“Caring what people think.”
“Would you please just stop?”
“Stop what?”
“Stop being funny and charming.”
“So you find me funny and charming?” That sultry zing in his eyes was back.
“You’re trying to be,” I amended, glad I’d run out of chocolate. A wave of queasiness washed through me. “It’s not working. I know your game.”
Riggs leaned on his elbows, smirking. “I have a game now, do I? Please fill me in as to what it is.”
He was grating on my nerves, but at least we weren’t talking about my public meltdown upstairs. I hoped I wasn’t becoming a viral meme this very minute.
British Karen lashes out at boss with a period stain on her bum.
This made Elvis’s dying on his toilet seat look like a graceful departure.
“You love female attention. You don’t care how or where you get it, or who you destroy in the process.” I crossed my arms.
People sidestepped us on the stairs. It was time to evacuate. I rose up and dusted off my dress, too preoccupied to care that I was sporting a period stain. I wasn’t even supposed to get my period until next week. BJ must’ve thrown me out of cycle with his traumatic news. I made my way to the subway, with Riggs tailing me.
“And what evidence do you have to support this claim?” he probed as I slam-dunked the empty Godiva box into a bin.
“You’re having an affair with a married woman.” I suppressed a burp. “You’re ruining a family.”
“Don’t tell me you grew sympathy for Gretchen Beatty in the last ten minutes.” He put a hand to his heart.
“Hardly.” I tilted my chin up. “But think about the children.”
“I prefer not to. I have a strong aversion to them, generally speaking.”
“Color me shocked.” I snorted, getting more riled up, although I noticed he stayed close behind me, hiding my period stain. “I’ve never met a man quite so reckless. You’re nearing forty and don’t even have a place!”
“I could have a place,” he said dryly, in a way that almost made me believe him. “And a car. And all those little insurances you have to pay monthly. I choose not to.”
“Why?”
“Freedom. Did you know the word mortgage means dead pledge in French? When you own something, it is bound to own you back.”
“Maybe I’d like to be owned. Living like a wild weed, without a place to call home . . . seems like a miserable existence to me.”
Riggs followed me down the stairs to the subway, his movements panther-like—sleek, long, and graceful. He was drawing looks from women and men alike, and the sheer presence of him made me lose my balance.
“I was never in any danger of ruining Gretchen’s marriage,” he said finally.
“How come?” I challenged, passing through the turnstile. He hopped over it after me. My future husband was a delinquent. Lovely.
“Because.” He leaned against the wall on the subway platform casually, one leg propped up. “It was already ruined when I entered the picture. Jason has been having an affair with Gretchen’s sister for ten years.”
“What a bunch of crock.” I rolled my eyes, producing a small mirror from my wallet and then checking my lipstick. “Gretchen’s daughter Presence is already nine.”
“She named her daughters Lyric and Presence?” Riggs wore a repulsed smirk. “She’s crueler than I thought. Anyway, that’s the God-honest truth. Gretchen found Jason and her sister in a compromising position the same day they arrived back from their honeymoon. Their marriage hasn’t been legit since.”
Shamefully, this piece of sordid information filled me with pleasure. Gretchen had always been on the winning end. I’d never seen her wronged.
“So why did she stay married to him?” I demanded.
“Didn’t you just say Presence is nine, soon to be ten?” He quirked a knowing eyebrow. “Do the math, Poppins.”
“Stop calling me Poppins.”
“Stop sounding like her.”
That made me shut up for a second while I digested the information.
Gretchen was pregnant when she got married to Jason. That made sense. Gretchen was the kind of woman to tick marriage and kids off her to-do list and move on to her next conquest. And by this stage—ten years ago—she was more concerned with not losing her position at the network than working on her marriage.
“And when did you enter the picture?” I crossed my arms over my chest.
“About four years ago.” Riggs adjusted the leather strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder. “We were both covering the Olympics in Greece.”
“Who hit on who?”
“Does it matter?”
“You know bloody well it does.”
“The attraction was there from both sides,” he said diplomatically.
“Who made the first move?” I insisted, filled with fresh rage toward Gretchen for hitting on my fake fiancé.
“Me,” Riggs said carelessly. Unconvincingly. “What can I say? All that cardio made me want to have a workout myself.”
I didn’t believe him. He was covering for Gretchen. I couldn’t figure him out. He had the thoughtless, hedonistic air of a villain and the moral code of a hero.
“Do you love her?” I narrowed my eyes, drowning in those ocean-hued marbles of his.
He threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Love is not an emotion I’m capable of, so don’t worry about your future husband pining after another.”
The train arrived at the platform, and Riggs and I both slipped inside. Since it was crowded with rush hour folks, we had to squish together against a plastic partition, with Riggs towering over me. His chest was flush against mine. He smelled outdoorsy and fresh.
“Even if Jason and Gretchen aren’t ‘legit,’” I said, air-quoting the word as I grabbed one of the straps, “what you two are doing is immoral.”
“Why?” Riggs spoke to the crown of my head, his warm cinnamon breath fanning my hair. “What kind of double standard is that? Men are expected to be forgiven and excused for cheating on women all the time, while women have to take the moral highway. Is this the deal you want to take?”
My face twisted in revulsion. “Just because Jason is an arsehole—”
“Doesn’t mean Gretchen should be one too?” Riggs finished for me, arching an eyebrow. “She responded to his indiscretions in kind. An eye for an eye, an orgasm for an orgasm.”
“Quite sure that’s not how they phrase it in the Bible.”
“Did you read the new edition?” he challenged, a teasing smirk gracing his mouth. “Much more explicit. I highly recommend.”
I don’t care about Jason, you wanker. But I’d love it if you could stop screwing my office bully.
Swallowing hard, I changed the subject. “This is not the way to Brooklyn.”
“Huh?” he asked, his attention already drifting to the phone in his hand.
“You said you’re heading to Brooklyn. You should get off and take the A or C line.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He reached over to tuck a wisp of hair behind my ear. My breath hitched. It was the first time he’d touched me intentionally. Thankfully, I didn’t crumble into rubbles of hormones. “Brooklyn was never in my plans tonight.”
“So why did you lie?”
“Because Gretchen wasn’t either.”
I masked my relief with a headshake. “It is unlike you to pass on an opportunity to have sex.”
He frowned. “Who said I’m passing on sex? My friend Ingrid is in town from Denmark.”
It felt like he’d stabbed my chest with an icicle. Must’ve been my longing for BJ. Which reminded me—perhaps I was foolish to sit around and wait for him. It would be a good idea to start exploring other opportunities.
I patted Riggs’s chest with a salacious smile. “Good for you, my primal, basic fiancé.”
“Uh-huh. She’s sarcastic now.” He smirked again. At least one of us found our banter pleasurable. “What did I do now to upset your delicate notions?”
“You couldn’t upset me if you tried,” I lied.
“Spit it out, Poppins.”
“You haven’t even given me an engagement ring.”
Madame, what are you on about, and who gave you the authority to say such a thing?I already knew I wasn’t in full control of my motor mouth when he was around, but this was scandalous.
“A fake engagement ring?” He tucked his finger into the loop of his belt.
“Obviously.”
I had officially lost my mind. I very much doubted it was on the same continent as me at this point.
“What do you need a ring for?” His tone was nonchalant, but he gave me that look again, like he was worried for my sanity. That made both of us.
“To authenticate our engagement, of course, why else?” I rolled my eyes. “A diamond ring is the blue checkmark of nuptials. It is utterly unskippable.”
“Blue checkmarks are a terrible invention. They solidify the false narrative that famous people are more important.”
“Thanks for the TED talk, Riggs, but the immigration officer would hardly care what you have to say about modern-day society,” I replied tersely. “We need to look convincing, and I can’t be the one to buy myself a ring because my taste is too highbrow for someone like you to choose it. It must look authentic.”
“You’re so lovable. It’s beyond me why you haven’t won Miss Popularity at the office.”
“That was because of your girlfriend,” I said.
“Is she also the reason why Cocksucker ran for the hills—sorry, highest mountain on Planet Earth?”
“I can’t believe you went there.” I reared my head back, staring at him wildly.
“I can’t believe he went all the way to Kathmandu to avoid asking you to marry him.”
I was about to bite out something snarky back when nausea clawed at my throat. Must’ve been the seven-pound chocolate assortment I’d decided to propel down my gob. Bugger. I didn’t want to throw up somewhere public. And on a ludicrously attractive man, no less.
“So help a tasteless guy out. What kind of ring would you like?” Riggs ignored a woman who “accidentally” threw herself at him when the train stopped, giggling an apology.
“Just go with your natural instincts,” I mumbled. My mouth felt like it was full of wool. “BJ always said he wanted to get me a marquise diamond engagement ring.”
“You mean Cocksucker the mouth breather?”
My head snapped up. “How did you . . . he’s not a mouth breather!”
“I bet his breath smells like a wet dog.” He grinned down at me, obviously getting off on my anger.
“I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer.”
Though, just for the record, BJ’s breath was absolutely fine. Possibly because I always snuck packs of mints into his wallet, but still.
“Hmm, Poppins?”
“What?” Was I actually answering to this nickname now?
“You’re green.”
I pursed my lips, holding back from puking.
“You’re not about to vomit, are you?” His forehead creased.
The desire to shake my head was strong, but I knew any movement would inspire me to throw up. So, I didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
Riggs flipped his bag open, angled it between us, and pulled out a Polaroid camera and a phone. “You’re not gonna make it to a public restroom. Throw up into this.”
My eyes flared. Was he mental?
He let loose a groan. “You can’t keep it in. The next stop is a few minutes away.”
I shook my head no. Huge mistake. My nausea intensified.
He pried the jaws of his bag open wider. “Just do it here before you throw up on someone’s shoes. I really don’t feel like getting into a fistfight because my fiancée can’t control herself around truffles.”
“Stop it. I had a day,” I muttered around the bile assembling in my mouth.
“Yeah.” Riggs began gathering my hair from my face expertly. He was surprisingly kind. Fatherly, even. Which was ironic, considering he didn’t want kids. “Trust me, half of New York’s corporate media was there to witness it.”
“I’m not throwing up into your messenger bag,” I maintained, even as cold sweat broke through my skin and I became light headed. “It’s not ladylike.”
“Ladylike left the station when you tramped around the streets of Manhattan with a period stain the shape of West Virginia on your ass.”
I pinched his bicep, outraged. “That you’d ever even mention this to me in public—”
He laughed brusquely. “Now that I’ve pissed you off, could you please do the world a favor and just throw up in my bag already?”
Well, he did deserve it.
That was when I keeled over and vomited into Riggs’s bag while he held my hair in his fist. I didn’t stop until it was completely full. My forehead collapsed on his chest. He stroked my head the entire time, his pecs shaking with laughter.
All in all, it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for me.