His Off Limits Best Friend - Vivian Wood Page 0,69

your inheritance,” he said.

“That’s fucking fine by me,” he said.

“Connor! What happened? What did you—”

His mother appeared in the doorway and rushed to his father’s side.

“Come on,” Connor said to Sam, and grabbed her by the elbow. She couldn’t have resisted if she wanted to. She wanted nothing more than to get out of that room.

He took her around back to the covered porch which was reserved for special events. It was empty this time of day with the chairs stacked on the tables. Connor’s entire body shook, and she put a hand on his back. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“You’re sorry? For what, exactly?” he asked. She’d never heard his voice like this before.

“For—”

“Not taking him up on the offer?” he asked.

It felt like he’d slapped her. “What? Don’t be crazy,” she said.

“You know what? Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am crazy,” he said. “This whole thing, this whole fucked up charade, was insane. And you know what’s even crazier? That you went along with it.”

“What?”

He laughed, and just a tiny part of him looked like his father in that moment. “Of course I’m fucked up in the head. Look at my goddamned family. But you? Some raving client comes into your office and you agree to be his fake fiancée why? For the money? Because he gets your panties wet? Both? Who’s the fucked up one now, huh?”

She backed away from him. This wasn’t what she’d expected. Worse, he was right. Of course he was right. She was just as messed up as he was. The tears started to come, and she couldn’t stop them.

“Don’t give me that,” he snapped. “Turn on the waterworks to get what you want. I’m immune to that bullshit. My mom pulled it my entire life.”

“I can’t help it,” she said. It was hard to get any words out.

“Forget it,” he said. “And forget you.” He turned and walked at a fast clip directly into the woods. She could make out some kind of trail, but it looked abandoned at best.

“Connor!” she yelled after him, but he’d disappeared into the green.

Sam took the stairs to their room to avoid any run-ins. As she stuffed her belongings into her bag, she realized she couldn’t fix him. He was who he was.

Tears streamed down her face, and she pulled the ring from her finger. She left it on the dresser and pulled out a piece of paper to leave a note. But found she had nothing left to say.

30

Sam

It had been three weeks since that nightmare at The Cottage and Sam still hadn’t completely shaken what had happened off her. She dragged ass at work, and knew it. Connor had called and texted a few times, but she’d ignored him. She hadn’t listened to the voicemails and deleted the texts without reading them. Simply seeing that one of them started with, Sorry about… was enough to make her sick.

However, she started to think that it was more than disgust and heartbreak. She felt like hell. She took her temperature daily, and it felt like she had the flu but her temperature was just barely raised.

“You look like crap,” Jenny told her when she finally forced herself to come into the office. It was Friday, but she’d taken the entire week off. The least she could do was prove she wasn’t off on some tropical vacation.

Sam had already sweated through her light blouse by the time she collapsed into her desk chair. “I feel like crap,” she told Jenny.

Her coworker hovered in her door. “Do you want me to get you some water? Maybe—”

Sam couldn’t help it. She leaned over and vomited into her trash bin.

“Oh my God…”

Jenny covered her mouth, and Sam was just grateful she hadn’t been able to gag anything down that morning except half a grapefruit. “Sorry,” she said. “I… I don’t feel good.”

“I think maybe you should go back home,” Jenny said.

“I agree.” Mrs. Whiteworth stood behind Jenny.

Jesus. Sam shone with embarrassment. Had her boss seen her vomit? She’d never live that down.

“We don’t want you spreading whatever this is around the office,” Mrs. Whiteworth said. “I’m guessing you’re sick? Not hungover, right?”

Sam could barely face the woman, but when she looked at her she saw a glimmer of kindness in her eyes. Mrs. Whiteworth put on her own charade daily. She couldn’t let the whole office know she was soft underneath that hard exterior. “No, ma’am,” she said. “I… I think I have the flu.”

“Go home. Rest over the weekend. If