Begin Again - Jennifer Probst Page 0,10
Alyssa finished.
Chloe bit her lower lip. The shame of the admission made her want to cringe. “Yeah.”
Her father’s voice vibrated with authority. “I have a plan. I’ll make some calls and get him off the case. I’ll find the perfect replacement and then he’ll go away.”
She shook her head even though her father couldn’t see her. “No way. This isn’t your life, Dad, and I can’t have you using your position to fix stuff.”
“What good is being governor if I can’t fix stuff?”
She tried not to laugh at his stubbornness. “Fix injustice, okay? Not my life. I’ll handle this. I think acknowledging I haven’t let go of the past is the first step in letting go. Maybe this time with Owen is what I needed to finally move on.”
“With Drew,” her father said. “I agree. You can handle this.”
Alyssa sighed. “As much as your father has a bromance going on, please go slow, Chloe. Don’t rush into anything because you’re trying to run from your feelings for Owen. That won’t help anyone.”
“I won’t. Thanks, guys. I better go, I just needed to talk.”
“We love you,” Alyssa said.
“Call day or night if you change your mind on anything. Like getting Owen fired. Or hurt.”
“I will, Dad. Love you both.”
She ended the call. The heaviness in her chest lightened. She’d needed to verbalize the doubts to someone who knew how badly she’d been hurt. Alyssa was right. Her evening with Drew made her realize she needed to face the past so she could put it behind her for good. Focusing only on work had been putting a Band-Aid on the problem.
It was time to talk to Owen.
If she could make peace and realize they were never meant to be together long-term, she’d be able to focus on Drew and give him the shot he deserved. She couldn’t kiss him again while thinking of another man. And that man was really a ghost, a man who didn’t exist anymore other than in her dreams and memories. She needed to flush him out and the only way was to face him head on.
Her decision made, she went to bed.
Chapter Four
A dozen blood-red roses sat on her desk, and all Owen could think of was what Chloe had done with the bastard who’d sent them.
His mind tortured with images that made him want to bleach his brain, he cursed under his breath and filled up his coffee mug for the dozenth time. It was almost eleven am and she still hadn’t shown.
Owen had the bad luck to be near the door when the floral carrier stepped in with her sunny smile, calling out Chloe’s name. He’d quickly signed, his fingers awkwardly grabbing the elaborate arrangement while her friends oohed and ahhed over who the mystery man could be. Owen had wanted to rush into a private room and rip open the card to know his name, but he managed to smile calmly and bring them into her office.
For the next hour, he brooded, stared at the roses, and drank coffee.
What was he going to do?
Her stubborn refusal to talk threw all his plans awry. Why hadn’t he realized he’d hurt her so deeply she didn’t want anything to do with him? In his head, he’d constructed this big redemption scene. He’d explain why he left, she’d understand, and they’d agree to try again. Sure, he knew she dated regularly—but he’d kept a close eye on her social media, engaged with consistent talks with the Bishops, and inquired with a few contacts in the animal advocacy world. Everyone always confirmed she wasn’t involved in a serious relationship. He figured he had enough time, but once again, he’d screwed it all up.
Owen sat down at his desk, glanced at the endless piles of files scattered around, and drummed his fingers on the battered old wood. He needed a better plan. A way to force her to be in his company without work. He’d seen a ridiculous movie once, where the broken-up couple were locked in a room for twenty-four hours, unable to escape, and when they emerged, they were back together. And that other one, where they got stranded in a snowstorm and worked out their issues.
He had to stop watching those damn Hallmark movies. It was wrecking his reality.
Her scent hit him full force before she launched herself past him, muttering madly under her breath as if in an effort to keep all her thoughts organized. She dropped her bag and began typing with flashing fingers.