It seemed like he’d pushed and pushed until she’d finally broken. Damn it. There had to be a way to fix this.
Chapter Ten
Brontë dashed down the street, ignoring the people around her. The suitcase dragged behind her on tiny wheels, slowing her down, but she didn’t care. Hot tears splashed down her cheeks, and her heart felt like a burning hole in her chest.
Logan wanted her to
make something
of herself.
The words made her sick. He didn’t like who she was. He thought she was a joke. Worse, someone to be embarrassed of.
Well, screw that, and screw him
, she thought, dashing the tears from her cheek with the back of one hand. A subway station appeared down the street, and she headed for it, needing a sense of purpose. Somewhere to go. Anywhere.
Of course, when she got into the station itself, she swiped the MetroCard she’d gotten with Audrey while shopping and then realized that she had nowhere to go. She frowned and took a seat on one of the benches, staring in dismay at a nearby map of subway interchanges. She’d been so content, wrapped up in her little cocoon that Logan had created for her, that she hadn’t even bothered to sightsee in the city she’d been so excited to visit. No Statue of Liberty, no Guggenheim, nothing. All she’d done was go shopping and attend a party.
And spend hours in Logan’s bed, being pleasured out of her mind
, she corrected herself.
Except he didn’t want
her
. Not really. Brontë the waitress was embarrassing. He needed her to be Brontë the small business owner so he could retain his billionaire street cred or something. She sighed in humiliation and hugged the suitcase closer to her as someone sat down on the far end of the bench.
And here she was, stranded all over again. Except this time, there wasn’t an elevator or a hurricane or a handsome man to keep her company. This time she was stuck in New York City with nowhere to go and no one to talk to, her heart broken into a hundred pieces.
She could always go straight to the airport. Call this little vacation quits, admit defeat, and return home. Of course, then she’d have to find another job. Logan was her new boss, after all. She wouldn’t be able to stay at the diner knowing that at any moment he could come through that door and insist that she talk to him again. So. New job. It was a shame. She liked her coworkers.
Despair threatened to overwhelm her. She’d lost the man she loved, lost her job, and was stuck in a strange city. Had she ever been lower? Tears welled in her eyes.
Music began to play at the far end of the station, and she automatically looked up. A man stood by a pillar, his violin case open, his soft song echoing in the tunnel. Someone passed by and dropped a dollar, barely even looking, but Brontë was entranced.
She was sitting in New York City, and she hadn’t even explored the place.
“Adventure is worthwhile,”
she told herself. Aristotle had it right. Why not visit all the places in New York City that she wanted to see before going home? A thought occurred to her, and she pulled out her phone, flipping through the list of numbers. She dialed a recent one.
“Audrey Petty,” the woman on the line answered promptly.
“Audrey? It’s me, Brontë.”
“Brontë?” The other woman sounded confused for a moment. “Why are you calling me?”
“I need a place to stay,” Brontë said, her eyes on the subway map. “I’ve left Logan.”
Just saying it out loud made her chest ache. They’d had a whirlwind courtship. She’d fallen fast, and she’d fallen hard. Logan Hawkings was going to be a difficult man to get over, she realized. She felt raw, completely shredded on the inside. Part of her wanted to turn around and hear him explain, to have him soothe away her hurt, and to return into his arms. She would’ve done anything just to curl up against him again.
Except he didn’t love her, did he? She’d told him that she loved him, and he’d given her a polite pat on the back. And then he’d tried to
fix
her, which rankled. Danica had been right. She’d blindly trusted him, and he’d tried to shove her into the mold of what he thought she should be.
“You . . . huh?” Audrey paused. “Wait. You
left
him, and you’re calling me? His assistant?”
A weepy little laugh escaped her. “You’re the only person I know in this town.”
“Oh.” Audrey got quiet. Then she sighed, as if resigned to her course of action. “Where are you?”
“The subway.”
“Yes, but where?”
Brontë curled up on the bench, feeling a little foolish. The subway map looked like a bunch of scribbly lines to her, and she’d never even taken as much as a bus in her life. “I honestly have no idea. It’s by Logan’s building.”
“Okay. I’m pretty sure I can guess what station that is. Just wait there, and I’ll swing by to get you. We’ll talk.”
“Thanks, Audrey,” she said softly. “I appreciate it.”
“You bet,” the assistant said, and hung up.
The violinist began to play a sad tune, and Brontë’s heart sank with every sorrowful note.
Logan didn’t love her. She’d given him everything he’d asked for—her time, her attention, her affection—and he’d still thought she wasn’t good enough. A fresh onrush of sadness rippled through her, and she swiped at her eyes again, frustrated with her own emotions.
Crying didn’t do any good. She was sad and hurt—okay, more like devastated—but she was also angry with herself. She’d let Logan control how their relationship had gone, and she’d gotten burned. If she ever dated someone like him again, she wouldn’t make the same stupid mistake twice.
***
Audrey showed up a short time later, a rounded bundle in a stylish gray peacoat. She was always dressed as if about to head into the office, Brontë realized with a sniff. “Hi, Audrey.”
“Hi,” she said, immediately offering a small packet of tissues to Brontë. “You look rough.”
Eyes watering, she nodded. “I don’t seem to be taking this well.”
“No,” Audrey said, a little troubled. “I don’t think you are. I suppose I should be offering you condolences, but I’m mostly just mystified. You broke it off with him? Are you aware he’s a billionaire? A really good-looking one? Was it truly that bad?”
Brontë blew her nose. “He tried to give me a business.” Her face crumpled. “So I could ‘make something’ of myself.”
“Ouch.”
“I told him I loved him, and he ignored it.”
“Double ouch. Okay, I can see why the lure of his money palls a bit in the face of his emotional assholeness.” She glanced down at Brontë’s suitcase. “Did you want to go grab a coffee and talk this out or something?”
“I guess so.” She lifted her wet eyes to Audrey. “Then I guess I have to find a hotel.”
“You do know how much most hotels in this area cost?”
Brontë shook her head, her stomach sinking.
Audrey sighed. “Brontë, listen. I really like you and I would love to offer my couch, but if Logan found out, he’d have kittens. So I don’t mind shepherding you somewhere as a Good Samaritan, but I can’t take sides in this. You know whose side I have to take.”
“I know,” Brontë said miserably. “I really appreciate the help, Audrey. I didn’t want to get you in trouble.”
The assistant brightened. “However . . .” She snapped her fingers. “I know someone who needs a roomie. Were you planning on staying long?”
“I hadn’t really decided,” Brontë said. She looked around the subway station and then back at Audrey. “I wouldn’t mind taking a few days off to clear my head.”
Before crawling back home
, she thought.
“Well, if you volunteer to pay half of this month’s rent, I imagine you can stay with her a couple of weeks. I guarantee it’ll end up being cheaper than a few nights in a hotel.”
“Who is this person?”
Audrey smiled brightly. “My sister, Gretchen. Want me to call her?”
Brontë thought about her savings account and the tip money she’d tucked away for a rainy day or a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She could cover half a month’s rent, she supposed, even if it was crazy-expensive compared to Kansas City. And she could take her time, see New York, and try to forget all about the man that had stormed into her life and taken over her heart so completely.
She nodded at Audrey. “Can you find out if it’s available?”
***
They took the subway to SoHo, a part of town that Audrey rolled her eyes at. “Such a cliché.”
Brontë hugged her suitcase close, staring around her at the subway with wide eyes. It seemed . . . crowded. Maybe she just wasn’t used to it. “I don’t understand. Why is it a cliché?”
“SoHo’s where all the artists used to live.”
Ah. “Is your sister an artist, then?”
“She likes to imagine she is,” Audrey said with a grin. “Artistic temperament, yes. Artist, no. She’s a ghostwriter.”
“Oh, wow. That’s fascinating.”
Audrey shrugged. “Some days she seems to like it. Some days she seems to hate it. I suppose it depends on who she’s working with.” When the subway announced their stop, she grinned and gestured at the door. “This is us.”
They walked a few blocks to an older apartment building. Audrey jogged up the steps and pushed the call button.
“Who is it?”
“It’s your sister. Open up. I got you a roomie.”
The door buzzed, and Audrey grabbed the handle, motioning for Brontë to enter. Brontë followed Audrey up four flights, the suitcase getting heavier with each step. One of the apartment doors was open by the time they got to the top of the stairs, and a woman who looked just like Audrey was looking at both of them curiously. She was tall, her form hidden by baggy clothing. Unlike Audrey’s pale orange hair, this woman’s was a fiery dark red, and she had the brows and pale skin to match.
“How’d you find me a roommate?” The other woman crossed her arms over her chest, looking suspicious.
Audrey put her arm around Brontë’s shoulders, tugging her close and beaming. “Brontë, this is my sister, Gretchen. Gretchen, Brontë.”
Gretchen studied Brontë with one raised eyebrow. “Bronty like . . . brontosaurus?”
“Like Charlotte Brontë,” she replied.
“I knew that. I was just fucking with you.” Gretchen adjusted square, thick-rimmed nerd glasses on her nose. She was the epitome of a writer on a deadline: Her red hair was pulled into a disheveled bun, her face was devoid of makeup, and she wore a pair of dark yoga pants and a black long-sleeved T-shirt that seemed a size too big for her. “So you want to be my roomie? You haven’t even seen the place.”
“Brontë here just broke up with her boyfriend and needs a place to stay for a few weeks.”
Gretchen flashed an annoyed look at her sister. “I need a permanent roommate, not a temporary one.”
“Yes, but Brontë’s willing to pay half of the rent this month, and she can’t stay with me because the boyfriend she broke up with happens to be my boss.”
Gretchen’s eyes widened, and she looked at Brontë like she was crazy. “Isn’t he rich?”
“Too rich,” Brontë said defensively. “He’s let it go to his head.”
The writer blinked behind her glasses. “Huh. Well, come take a look at the place.”
The apartment was small but cheerful, with plants on the windowsill and bookshelves lining the living room. A computer desk covered in paper and books sat at the far end of the apartment, and more books covered the countertops in the kitchen. Brontë immediately liked it, of course. “How many bedrooms?”
“Two,” Gretchen said, brushing past and opening the door to the bedroom down the hall. “It’s not very big.”
That was an understatement. The room was the size of her closet back home, but there was a narrow bed against the wall and a small dresser, which was really all she needed. “Looks good to me,” she said. “I probably will only be staying until the end of the month, though. I still have an apartment back in Kansas City.”
Gretchen shrugged. “I won’t take down my want ads, then. I do have to warn you about one thing.”
“Oh?”
“I have a pet. His name is Igor.”
“He’s hideous,” Audrey said flatly.
“He is not!” Gretchen opened her bedroom door and picked a small lump up off of the corner of the bed and held it out to Brontë. “He’s just a cat.”
Igor blinked enormous eyes at Brontë. Gretchen’s cat was hairless, apparently. It looked like a naked rat, if she was honest with herself. The thing had long, spindly legs and wrinkly gray skin. Enormous triangle ears jutted from the tiny, pointy face, and it stared up at her with wide golden eyes and then meowed.
Brontë laughed at the sight of him.
“Well, that’s a better reaction than the last potential roomie,” Gretchen said. “Welcome aboard.”
***
Brontë curled under the blankets of her new temporary apartment. The bed was narrow and uncomfortable, with a spring sticking into her lower back, and she was pretty sure she could hear someone talking on the other side of the wall.
She got out of bed and padded over to the small window of her room, pushing it open a crack. It eased open only about two inches, just enough to let the sounds of the street below carry into the room.
The apartment wasn’t glamorous, but Gretchen seemed nice, and Brontë still had a curious fascination for New York. Being here in the apartment felt a bit like hiding from reality. Back home, she’d have to deal with the fact that she’d slept with the boss and then broken up with him. But for now? She could hide away in this tiny room with a bunch of expensive clothes that would do her no good, a jillion books, a hairless cat, and a writer who was, even at two in the morning, seated at her computer and working frantically on her manuscript. It still felt a bit like an escape.
She’d left the diamond necklace behind, too. She supposed she could have sold it for rent money, but that would have been . . . painful. And unfair. And somehow wrong. It seemed to symbolize their relationship, and she couldn’t have sold it. She just couldn’t have.
Brontë wondered if Logan would be looking for her. She hugged her knees close, a stab of pain in her heart. The night before she’d been curled in his arms, deliciously sated after a round of incredible, blissful sex. He’d pulled her close and hugged her against him, his fingers playing over her skin as she drifted off to sleep, and she’d thought that she’d never been held so tenderly.