“I will once they take the bandages off my head.”
He laughed. “Yes, well, I’m sure your growing fan-club outside will continue to love you either way...I just need five minutes.”
“You said that last time and it turned into thirty.”
“Fair enough.” He pulled a packet of paper from his pocket, tossing it to me.
“What’s this?”
“It’s the piece that’s going to run in The New York Times next week. I wanted you to see it first.”
“I’m not taking over your airline, so if this is your sad attempt to get me to think about that again, it’s still a no.”
“Jake—”
“I’ll never forgive you for what you did with Riley, I’ll never forgive you for what you did to my mother,” I said, looking him straight in the eye—wondering if he was worth the rest of what I wanted to say. “But I can forgive you for being you. I don’t want your airline, though.”
“I’m not asking you to think about anything. I just want you to read the paper.” He leaned over me and hugged me against my will. “I’m sorry, and I always will be...Remember that.” He looked at me one last time and left the room.
For the second time in months, I found myself face to face with some shit I didn’t really want to read, but curiosity won me over, yet again. I flipped open the packet and couldn’t force myself to look away from the article’s headline if I tried:
The Truth About Flight 1872 & How I “Lost” My Wife, How I Really Built Elite Airways, and Why I Want My Oldest Son Back.
GATE C53
GILLIAN
New York (JFK)
“How do you think the literature lovers of America would feel if they knew that their latest beloved novelist was a slob?” Meredith asked as she drew the curtains in my bedroom, letting what was left of the sunset seep through my windows.
“I’m not a slob.” I groaned, tossing the latest copy of The New York Times across my bed. “I’m just depressed.”
It’d taken everything in me not to call Jake when I’d read all of the confessions from his father in the press, when I saw what was the first to come of media backlash for all those hidden lies. I wanted to ask him how he was feeling about everything, if he could see himself ever forgiving his family now.
Then again, since he was probably the one who so quickly banned me from his visitor’s list at the hospital, he probably wouldn’t have picked up my phone call anyway.
“You’re not depressed, Gillian. You’re pathetic.” Meredith was still talking, picking up my clothes from the floor and tossing them into a pile in the corner. “This whole Jekyll and Hyde thing—smiling for the cameras during the day and crying at night has got to stop, and it’s got to stop now.”
“Tomorrow.” I rolled across the bed. “I promise I’ll be better tomorrow.”
“You’ll be better tonight.” She yanked the covers off me. “You’ll also start writing your next book, you know the one that’s due in six months, the one your agent keeps “checking in” on you about. As your friend, I’ll give you a couple more hours to mope, but then we’re going out.”
“Out where?”
“A party.” She gave me an ‘Is that a serious question?’ look. “Where else? Remember how heartbroken you were when you and Ben came to an end all that time ago?”
“No.” And I honestly didn’t...
“Yeah, well, I do,” she said. “And the way you got over him is the same way you’re going to get over Jake. I can’t deal with your daily pity party anymore.”
“You can’t force me to do a one-night stand.” I dodged her pillow toss. “I’m not ready for that.”
“Trust me, I’ve learned my lesson. You and one night stands don’t work. I’m only suggesting a party—something non-book related, something non-Jake related so you can start moving on.”
“Do you think he’s seeing someone else? Do you think she’s more of his type?” I knew I asked her these questions every day, knowing damn well she had no idea, but I couldn’t help it. I was not over Jake, and there was a part of me that didn’t want to ever completely get over him. A part of me that was still holding out hope.
“Gillian...” She sighed and walked over to my closet, opening the doors. “You and me are going to leave for a friend’s private party in exactly two hours. For those two hours, and the four to five hours we spend at the party, there will be no mentions of Jake, Elite Airways, the newspapers, nothing. The only thing I want to talk about is what you’re drinking, what you’re wearing, and who you’re interested in bringing home. That’s it.”
“The first night we met, Jake told me that he didn’t have a type,” I said. “I wonder if he was just saying that to get me to go home with him...What do you think?”
She pulled a blue dress out of my closet and threw it at me before walking toward the door. “Be ready in two hours, Gillian. Two hours.”
GATE C54
GILLIAN
New York (JFK)
I was certain that the fates above were huddled together and laughing hysterically at my expense. The “party” Meredith brought me to wasn’t on some secluded rooftop via an abandoned building like last time. It was on the rooftop of The Madison at Park Avenue, and although residents were supposedly not allowed to attend, being here only made me think of the one who currently lived right below us in Unit 80A.
Every twenty minutes, Meredith went out of her way to introduce me to someone new, someone “cool,” but the attraction was never there. At least, not in the intense way I knew it could be.
Almost every man at this party was a self-made suit or a rising visionary in the world of fashion art, but I couldn’t last in a single conversation for more than five minutes. My mind was always elsewhere, my heart too stubborn to give anyone new a chance.
Grabbing a glass of wine from a waiter’s tray, I walked over the roof’s railing and looked up at the sky as a white plane hovered over The Hudson.
“Cool plane, right?” a voice to my left said. “Probably military. Probably a turbo glider or something, probably getting ready to head somewhere on the other side of the world right now.”
“No,” I said, “That’s an MD-88. It’s only for short range flights.” I turned to look at him, but he was blinking rapidly in intimidation and slowly stepping away from me.
I watched as the small plane flew higher, as it continued to make its ascent.
“So, you’re still spreading the wrong information...” The deep, low sound of that voice made my heart jump, made me turn around and come face to face with Jake.
He was still fucking perfect; still sexier than the last time we were together.
Wearing an impeccable black suit in a way that only he could, he was smiling at me, eventually taking the place right next to me at the railing.
“It was an MD-90, Miss.” He didn’t say my name. “You were close though, very close.” He glanced at my lips.
“I’m Jake.” He extended his hand, and the second I took it, every nerve in my body instantly came to life. “And you are?”
“Gillian.”
“Hmmm. What do you do for a living, Gillian?”
“I’m a bestselling author...You?”
“I’m a pilot, senior captain actually.”
“You look a little too young to be a captain,” I said, easily mimicking our very first conversation the night we met.
“Well,” he said, planting a light kiss on my forehead. “My high number of flight hours say differently.”
Silence.
For several minutes, the two of us simply stood staring at each other, and I knew, right then and there, that my heart was still tethered to his, that there wasn’t a chance in hell that I would ever fall for anyone else the way I fell for him.
His eyes never left mine and he wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me closer as if he was going to reclaim my mouth with his, but he stopped before our lips could touch.
“I have something I would like you
to sign.” His hands skimmed my hips and he looked into my eyes. “Will you do that for me?”
I nodded and he slowly let me go, reaching into his blazer and pulling out a paperback copy of Turbulence and a pen.
“You can sign it under the dedication,” he said. “Right under, For you, only you.”
I took the pen from his hands and wrote, “Even if you’ve moved on, you’re still *my* anomaly” on the title page. Then I signed under the dedication.
Smiling, he took the book from me. “You’re still my anomaly, Gillian,” he said softly. “You always will be.”
“Does that mean you’re not upset about the book anymore?”
“I’m fucking livid about the book.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “And actually, since we’re on that topic, let’s get a few things straight: One, your use of aviation terminology is terribly executed throughout the book. You thanked your content editor in the credits so I had high hopes, but after three times of going through it with my highlighter, I’m still finding mistakes.”
“You’ve read my book three times?”
“Seven,” he said. “And I’m not done. You have a lot of errors you need to know about.”
“It’s already published.”
“I don’t give a fuck.” He was smiling. “You need to know about each and every one of them.” He clasped my hand. “Why did you change where we first had sex? It was against the bookshelf, but in your book it’s on my desk.”
“My editor thought that was a better place.”
“My eyes skew towards a lighter blue, not dark blue.”
“Another editorial change.”
“We fucked on way more than one international flight, and you sucked my cock for the first time in New York, not a stopover hotel.”
“Once again, editorial.”
“I also don’t ever recall saying that I loved you that soon in our relationship.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “I said what we had was messy and I liked it.”
“So, you don’t love me?” I asked.
“That’s not the point.”
“Care to get to it?” I mocked his voice, and he smiled again.
“The point is, I haven’t seen or fucked you in months, and I haven’t seen or fucked anyone else in months either.” He pressed his lips against mine. “And that, no one else will ever compare. I miss and I love you, and only you. And most of all, I miss fucking you.”
“You really could’ve left that last part out...”
“No, it was very much needed.” He wiped one of my stray tears away. “I love you, Gillian. No matter what, and I think we need to leave this party. Now.”
“Not until I ask you a few questions. I need to know what type of man I’m dealing with tonight.”
“The type that’s going to fuck you the second we make it to the elevator, the type that’s going to take you to his place after that and fuck you all over again.”
I blushed, but remained still. “Why did you take me off your visitors’ list at the hospital?”
“I didn’t want you to see me that way,” he said, looking genuine. “Plus, you’d already been there two weeks in a row and I was fine. I wanted you to worry about yourself.”
“Are you the anonymous person who’s been upgrading all my flights to first class for all my recent book signings?”
“Of course not,” he said, smirking. “Only someone who still loves you would do something like that.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re very welcome. Is that the end of your questions?”
“No, I have two more.”
“I’ll answer one more.”
“Fine. Is this the part where you propose?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He pressed his mouth against mine and kissed me so hard and reckless that I nearly lost my balance. Then he squeezed my hand and began to lead me toward the elevator. “This is the part where we start a new chapter, one we can write together.”
**The End**
A Letter to the Reader
Dear Incredible Reader,
Thank you so much for taking time out of your life to read this book! I hope you were thoroughly entertained and enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
If you LOVED it and have any extra time, PLEASE leave a review on amazon.com, B&N.com, goodreads.com, OR find me here on Facebook so I can personally thank you :-)
I’m forever grateful for you and your time, and I hope to be re-invited to your bookshelf with my next release. (Speaking of my next release, if you’d like to be a part of my mailing list so you can be notified of my upcoming release dates and special offers, please sign up via this link. )
Love,
Whitney G.
Also by Whitney G.
To be a part of my mailing list and be notified of release dates and special offers, please sign up via this link.
Reasonable Doubt Full Series
Reasonable Doubt #1
Reasonable Doubt # 2
Reasonable Doubt #3
Sincerely, Carter
My Last Resolution: A Novella
Mid Life Love Series:
Mid Life Love
Mid Life Love: At Last
Twisted Love
(New Adult Romance)
Malpractice
(Erotic Romance)
RESENTMENT
Nicole London
PROLOGUE
MIA
Smalltown, USA
2004
Dean Collins is the most irresistible asshole at Central High School.
He’s your typical cliché, Mr. Popular. The “guy’s guy” who’s been voted “Homecoming King” two times in a row (minus my vote); the sexy star quarterback who’s capable of making grown women swoon from the sidelines (it really is sad), and the guy who can charm the hell out of any admiring girl with a simple smile, and a “Hey...What’s up?” in five seconds flat.
His face is the stuff of sculptures—hard and strong jawline, deep and piercing green eyes, and dimples that show even when he’s not smiling. And as if that wasn’t enough for the gods to endow him with, he has a six pack of abs that he always shows off, with full and defined lips that sometimes even make me wonder what they would feel like.
Nonetheless, I always do my best to avoid Dean Collins like the plague: I leave the four classes we take together early, never go to pep rallies to cheer on the team (Dean is the team), and the few times that he’s attempted that “Hey...What’s up?” thing on me, I’ve offered a blank stare and walked away.
Today, my usual avoidance routine seems to be getting tested, though. Especially since he’s currently standing five feet away from me.
“Yes?” I look up from my canvas and stare at him from across the classroom. “May I help you with something, Dean? You’re not in the art club.”
“I’m aware.” He smirks, looking around the empty classroom. “But it doesn’t look like anyone is in art club...”
That part is true. There’s actually no such thing as “art club” at Central High. It’s just me taking over whatever classroom I can find after school to paint for a few hours.
“We’re currently accepting applications for membership,” I say, setting down my paintbrush in the easel tray. “What can I help you with?”
“You know, I did come here for something.” He steps into the room and closes the door. “But, now that you claim that you’re accepting applications for your club, can I fill one out?”
“We don’t accept douchebags,” I say flatly. “Your application wouldn’t make it past round one.”
“Douchebag?”
“Yes, douchebag. Would you like me to give you the definition?”
Laughing, he tilts his head to the side. “I’m well versed on the definition, Mia Gray.” He stares at me for a long time, looking right into my eyes, giving me his usual infectious charm.
I immediately break our gaze and clear my throat. “You said you came here for something? Can you hurry
up and tell me what that ‘something’ is so I can get back to addressing my art club? Today is a very important day for us.”
“I can see that...” He pulls his backpack off his shoulder and opens it, pulling out a black notebook. My black notebook.
“I found your notebook this morning,” he says. “I wanted to find you and give it back. I tried to give it to you after Physics class but I couldn’t get your attention.”
“Oh...” I reach for it, but then I stop. “Where exactly did you find it?”
“It was in the ‘Lost and Found.’ I saw it on top of everything in there when I got here for practice earlier.”
“You know, that’s funny,” I say, crossing my arms. “Because I’ve been checking ‘Lost and Found’ every single day and in between every single class for weeks and it was never there.”
“Maybe you just didn’t look hard enough.”
“I even checked it this morning, and it wasn’t there. It. Was. Not. There.”
He smiles and flips through the pages. “You have very pretty handwriting. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Where did you really find it, Dean?”
“You take pretty detailed notes, too.”
“Did you steal my fucking notebook?”
“Maybe.” His lips curve into a smirk. “Depends on how you define stealing.”
WHAT?! I nearly scream, knowing that that’s exactly what he’s done. “I had to rewrite the entire thing in one night! The night before our midterm!”
Still smiling, he walks over and sets the notebook on the window sill. “Well, good thing you somehow managed to still get an A, right? If it wasn’t for me, you probably wouldn’t have known that you were capable of rewriting a whole notebook in a night. I helped you push your boundaries, so I think I deserve a thank you.”
It takes everything in me not to pick up my canvas and hit him over the head with it, but I remain calm. Kind of. I stand up from my chair and push the easel against the window. Then I toss my “newly-found” notebook into my backpack and storm out of the room, biting my bottom lip to prevent myself from screaming.