How Much I Feel - Marie Force Page 0,27
clutches. We hooked up at least three times a week for months, most of the time at my place in the city, which I now realize was strategic on her part. Until that fateful night on Long Island when her husband caught us, which was her plan all along.
Why am I still thinking about her and what she did to me? Why can’t I just forget about her and move on? Because I loved her. I hate that, but it’s true. I totally fell for her. I didn’t plan to let that happen. At first, it was about the sex, which was awesome, and later, it became about so much more than that. I could talk to her, and she really listened. A difficult case at work consumed me for months, a child with a brain tumor that resisted all conventional treatment. When I lost that child after a Hail Mary surgery failed, I was despondent.
Ginger came to my place that night, after I told her I wasn’t up for getting together. She held me when I bawled from the frustration and despair I felt after not being able to save that little boy’s life. She didn’t ask me for anything and gave me everything.
How could she do that, knowing our entire relationship was nothing more than a scam? Did she ever care about me at all, or did she only pretend to care so I’d stick around long enough to get caught? I hate that I still wonder if she ever actually gave a shit about me or if the whole thing was nothing more than a big game to her.
I want to stop thinking about her. I want to stop reliving every minute I spent with her and picking it apart, looking for clues that simply weren’t there. Or if they were, I never saw them. All I saw was a witty, beautiful, smart, sexy woman who briefly made me a believer in true love and fairy tales.
Such bullshit, which is exactly why I shouldn’t be looking forward to seeing Carmen Giordino or any woman. I don’t have the bandwidth at the moment for anything other than doing what I can to salvage the career that is my life. Nothing else but getting that back on track matters, and I need to remember my ultimate goal here.
Carmen arrives a few minutes later, driving a navy-blue Honda. I wave to her and point to the free parking area.
A few minutes later, she makes her way toward me. Today she’s wearing a black suit with a floral-print silk blouse. Her hair is long and curly, and I’m riveted.
Didn’t you just have a talk with yourself about why you can’t be riveted by Carmen or anyone else?
I did just have that conversation with myself, for all the good it did me. She’s beautiful and vibrant and smart as hell. Her story about losing her young husband so tragically moved me last night. I thought about it long after we parted company, wondering what it was like for her to become a widow at twenty-four.
It’s horrible to even imagine, way worse than what Ginger did to me. That’s nothing compared to what Carmen endured.
She gets into the passenger seat, bringing an alluring scent with her that has the attention of every part of me, despite my determination to steer clear of anything to do with romantic entanglements.
Don’t forget, my inner voice reminds me, she’s only helping you because she owes you money and her boss told her to.
It’s a good reminder that this, whatever this is with her, needs to remain strictly professional.
She puts her seat belt on. “Where to?”
“I’m meeting a Realtor in South Beach.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her frowning.
“What?”
“I didn’t take you for a cliché.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“South Beach? Really?” Every word drips with disdain.
“I asked around. People said that’s where the action is.”
“If you’re twenty-five and looking to party, sure. Do you have any idea what the commute from South Beach to Kendall would be like on an average workday?”
“Uh, not really.”
She shrugged. “If you want to spend an hour bumper to bumper each way, it’s your life to waste.”
“I usually go to work crazy early and come home super late. I rarely hit rush hour.”
“I’m telling you. You don’t want to live there.”
“And you know me well enough to say that?”
“I do.”
I laugh, delighted by her even if I don’t want to be. “Where do you think I should live?”
“You should check