algebra book and began working on her assignment. When she looked up, it was past time to leave for work. She tore around the apartment, changing her clothes, and rushed out the door, arriving at The Captain's Galley just as her shift was starting.
As usual, Cecilia poked her head into the lounge to say hello to her father.
He raised his hand and called out "How's it goin'?" when he saw her.
"Fine." No use explaining her depression to him. He wouldn't know what to say if she did.
"Glad to hear it."
"Yeah, right," she muttered under her breath.
Cecilia hadn't been at work more than an hour when a deliveryman arrived with a huge bouquet of fresh flowers. Yellow daisies, her favorite, and big pink tulips and a variety of others. "I'm looking for Cecilia Randall," he said, reading the tag.
Taken aback, Cecilia said nothing for a moment.
"Is there a Ms. Randall here?" he asked, frowning.
"I'm Cecilia Randall," she told him.
The young man, probably a high-school student, thrust the vase filled with flowers into her arms and left. She didn't need to unwrap the cellophane and read the card to know they were from Ian. This was exactly the kind of low, underhanded thing he did just so she'd feel guilty. Well, dammit, that wasn't going to work. She refused to let it.
Setting the flowers down next to the cash register, she removed the plastic and dropped it into the nearby trash can. Then she reached for the card.
Happy First Anniversary. I love you. Ian
Her stomach cramped, and Cecilia feared she was about to be sick. Biting into her lower lip, she waited for the sensation to pass.
"Who are the flowers for?" her father asked curiously, walking into the restaurant.
She didn't answer right away. "Me, from Ian," she whispered.
"Really. Any special reason?"
She nodded. "It's...supposed to be our anniversary."
"Oh."
Tears slid down her cheeks. When her father noticed them, he patted her on the back and returned to the bar.
Justine sipped her wine and pretended to be listening intently to Warren as he babbled on. She'd lost track of what he was saying, but a response from her wasn't required. Any comment, other than praise or social small talk, wasn't welcome. Justine knew her role and it was that of a social accessory. This hadn't bothered her in the past and didn't really bother her now. She understood Warren, understood the terms of their arrangement.
"More wine?" Warren asked, lifting the bottle and replenishing her glass.
Dinner at this five-star Seattle restaurant was in celebration of some multimillion-dollar contract Warren had landed. Such celebrations happened every two or three months.
"Well," he said, gazing expectantly at her, "what do you think?"
"Think?" Warren didn't date her for her brains and wasn't really interested in her opinions. They never talked about her job; in fact, he avoided dealing with her bank.
He blinked hard. "Justine, weren't you listening?"
"I...I'm afraid it's the wine. I get kind of sleepy. I'm sorry, darling, what were you saying?" Announcing that another man had been on her mind was not likely to garner his sympathy.
Thoughts of Seth Gunderson consumed her day and night, but she'd have to be a complete moron to drop Warren for a man who lived on a sailboat. Seth infuriated her. He could have slept with her, would have if she'd had any say in the matter. Every time she thought about that night, Justine felt so angry and humiliated, she wanted to bash her head against the wall. Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!
In her weakness she'd encouraged him, and that had been a dreadful mistake. Seth believed she was leaving Warren for him. She couldn't. Warren needed her, and in her own way she needed him.
"I was talking about us," he repeated.
The conversation was about to become awkward. Justine could feel it.
"Oh, Warren, do you really think this is the time?" She pouted very prettily at him.
"Yes. Tonight's a celebration."
"I'm so proud of you."
He beamed her a smile and leaning across the table, clasped her fingers. Stroking his thumb over the back of her hand, he held her gaze. "You know how I feel about you."
She did indeed. Justine might be a lot of things, but she wasn't stupid.
"Move in with me."
"Oh, Warren." Two or three times a year he pressured her to make that decision. So far, she'd always managed to change the subject, cajole him out of his insistence on "taking the next step." Dating Warren was one thing; living with him was an entirely new scorecard. She'd never intended their