No Perfect Princess (44 page)

But did I
want
to be given the chance?

Damn good question. Maybe I’d have to come back to that.

He’d accused me of being self-centered. Well…guilty as charged. Had it hurt, hearing it come from
his
mouth? Not so much, until I thought about the reasoning he’d used for it. And then?
Yeah. Ouch.

But it was pain I’d brought on myself. A tower I’d locked
myself
into.

That bore looking at again.

When I was self-centered about things like my life style? Not guilty. My ridiculously comfortable car choice, and giving a man a solid job because of it? Not guilty. The latte I drank instead of a plain coffee? Not guilty. My designer handbag instead of—
gasp—
off the rack? Not guilty.

But when he accused me of being selfish, of not understanding his protectiveness of me over the ugliness with Trey and Andrea?
Ding ding ding. Guilty as charged, officer. Lock me up
.

I owed him an apology. A big one. I’d been pissy and petulant, instead of seeing the bigger picture about what had obviously happened to his mom at the hands of an abuser. Shitty thing was, I’d probably have to do it via email, which rankled but was the only choice. If I called, God only knew how much farther I’d be able to shove my foot up in mouth.

I’d also have to address the rest of my ugliness: my unfair jibes about his small town upbringing.
Cheap shots
. I knew it then like I knew it now. Truth of the matter was, though I was raised on marble floors in “America’s Finest City”, I was jealous of what he’d enjoyed in Julian. People who knew and admired him. A community much like a huge family. And those meadows…

Damn. I was turning out to be an awesomely mature adult. I was drafting an apology email to my jilted lover on my smart phone on the beach. See? I could grow as a human. Miracles were possible.

Who the fuck was I kidding?

None of this was me! I didn’t want to send a goddamn apology email! I didn’t want to be—

The completion to that sucked the air from my lungs. Stung my eyes with a thousand needles. Turned my legs as mushy as the wet sand out on the berm.

I didn’t want to send an email to Michael…because I didn’t want to be
apart
from Michael.

I wanted to throw myself at his feet and beg him to stay in San Diego, and never think of leaving me again. God, he’d hate Atlanta. What the humidity alone would do to his thick hair…

I shot to my feet.

“Ohhh, shit!”

Now
what did I do? How did I tell him?
Could
I tell him? Was there time? What was it going to take? I was so far out of my league. Ruined politician? Action plan for that. Besmirched pop starlet? Action plan for that. Movie god caught with his dick in the wrong place? Had
that
action plan on autopilot. But there was no action plan for
this
. I didn’t have a damn clue what to do. I couldn’t ask Claire, I couldn’t ask Killian. Shit, I couldn’t even ask Andre.

Could I call Di? If I told her what was going on, would she shed some light on the amazing puzzle that was her son? And what if she told me to go grovel? And if I did, would Michael still tell me to go fuck myself? Could I take that sort of humiliation? That heartbreak?

I had to try.

Dammit, I had to try.

I couldn’t imagine my life without him. When I spun my mind back through the last two years, every major event had his gorgeous face stamped on the memory, too. He thought he’d gone unnoticed?
World’s hugest joke
. He was woven through my life’s tapestry as thickly as Claire and Killian at this point.

Crazy—and perfect. I’d reached this decision before realizing it had to be made, hadn’t I? He’d been right in front of my eyes all this time…just waiting for me to wake up and see him. I’d made up excuses. Told him I was “broken”. But the word was just as ridiculous on my lips as it’d been on Claire’s. Why was I selling myself short and not allowing myself the love of a stunning man as amazing as him? He kept insisting he loved me. Who was I to tell him he didn’t?

I was done with excuses. With blaming my pain and my childhood and especially my “mother”. Andrea didn’t get to dictate my life anymore—or my heart. I’d given too much of myself to the bitch already. Not anymore.

I wasn’t broken.

I was whole and worthy and good, and I deserved Michael’s love just as he did mine. And oh God, I
did
love him. I didn’t just believe that I “might” be able to. My heart was one hundred and fifty percent
in
on this deal.

“Shit!” I blurted again.

I had to find him. Had his flight left yet? Well, tough Margaux titties if it had. I’d buy a ticket for the next flight out to Georgia, and have to race in the terminal at Hartsfield-Jackson to kiss the living hell out of him.

I didn’t want to wait. I’d been such an idiot. The sooner I proclaimed that to him, the better.

Speaking of me and “idiot” in the same sentence…

What the fuck was I thinking, coming to a beach that required a steep hike to reach the sand?

The walk back to Andre was going to suck big, hairy balls. No other way around it. But there was no other way back to my phone—and the information I desperately needed about Michael’s flight.

That was it. I’d consider the trip my pilgrimage back to Michael.

Riiiight
.

By the time I made it back to the top, I was sure I’d sprained both ankles and was likely dehydrated. Andre bolted out of the car and approached like a frantic father. It would’ve been adorable if I wasn’t near death.

“Jeeez-usss, woman! What are you trying to prove?”

“I had to get back up. Fast. Water.
Please.
”

He thrust an opened bottle into my hand. “I’ll pull the car over. Just stand there.”

Good plan.

As soon as he had the door open, I tumbled inside. Damn. I smelled like a platoon of Marines—perhaps leather pants hadn’t been the right wardrobe choice for the beach—but promptly didn’t care. The only goal burning in my mind was finding Michael.
Now.

I scooped up my phone and began tapping at the screen. First stop was a search for Pearson’s Apple Farm. Di would be the fastest source about his flight status.

An incoming call blared in, interrupting my outgoing one.

A thousand daggers of dread gored my gut—

Until I realized that Trey Stone no longer dictated my life, either.

This was going to be
fun.

“
Hola, mi hermano
. What the fuck do you want?”

“Shit. Are you
ever
not a bitch?”

“It’s rare, but it happens. Kind of like a unicorn sighting.”

“You’re such a cunt.”

“Mmmm, there’s that family love. So what do you want, asshole? I gave you all the money you’re going to be getting from me, so go find another tree to go piss up.”

“Do I need to remind you of the stakes of our little game, sister?”

“See, that’s just the thing. I’m done playing, Trey. You can go fuck yourself. Or maybe just my mother. Guess she doesn’t mind catching a disease or five.”

He had the grace to hiss when I dropped the bomb about my knowledge of his and Andrea’s “alliance”. But like a bull that didn’t know when to stop, he charged right in again. “You’d be smart to shut up while you’re still ahead, bitch. I’m getting really angry. You won’t like me when I’m angry.”

“That would imply that I like you now. Or at all.”

“I want the rest of my money, Margaux. You know what I’ll do if that doesn’t happen.”

“Tell you what, Trey? Let’s play a new game. It’s called
chicken.
You go right ahead and do what you need to do, because you won’t be getting one more dollar of my money. Just know that I’ll be simultaneously filling in a few people in about your little blackmail attempt.” I couldn’t resist giggling a little. “Hope you’ve put a deposit down on that deep, dark hole you’ll need to hide in, scum sucker—because things aren’t going to be pretty when they find you this time.”

Surprise, surprise; the conversation was ended with a click.

Trey would make good on his threat, of that I was certain—but it didn’t matter anymore. Michael loved me regardless of a mistake I made when I was young and wrapped up in what I
thought
was heartbreak.

Now I knew the difference.

What I’d suffered with Doug was a flesh wound compared to the carnage of my heart if Michael wouldn’t take me back. But that was the proverbial bridge I’d jump from when I came to it.

I exhaled hard when the public line at Pearson’s was picked up on the third ring. The receptionist quickly patched me through to the right extension.

“Hello, Di?” I was suddenly nervous. Like that was going to stop me. “It’s Margaux. I really need your help. I’m in love with your son—and I need help in doing something about it.”

Michael

“H
ave a safe
and pleasant flight, Mr. Pearson.”

“Thanks.”

I managed a smile out of habit, knowing that if I didn’t, Mom would somehow find out I’d been “rude” to the woman at Lindbergh Field TSA and drag me in here to apologize. The second I grabbed my carry-on and stepped away from security, the black cloud assumed its rightful place over my head. Right where I wanted it.

I’d helped the movers load the last of my shit into their truck yesterday afternoon, then confirmed they’d meet me at the storage facility in Atlanta in three days. The rest of my life was contained in one suitcase and the bag slung over my shoulder, meaning the Hyatt had the “privilege” of hosting my morose ass last night. I’d hit the hotel gym hard, parked my sorry self in the whirlpool, and scowled down flirty glances from three models working the convention center’s car show before heading back upstairs for three hours of semi-meaningful sleep. But that was my way of aiming for the positive today. I dared fate to ask for more, because it’d be damn fun to answer that bastard with what I really thought of his latest turn my life had taken.

Seriously? This is “fate’s” fault now?
You
made this decision, asshole. Nobody forced you to make that call to Atlanta—not even the woman who kicked you to the curb. You climbed your way back up from that muck. Grew a pair and decided to take a chance on a new start. Now buy yourself a beer and force yourself to remember that.

I grabbed a seat in the corner of the terminal 2 bar and ordered an Alpine IPA. Bumping my head back against the wall, I tried out a little more self-bolstering, courtesy of the Di Pearson book of cheesy quotes. I’d been treated to enough of them during our phone conversation last night, her last motherly rah-rah before I officially left the state—for the benefit of us both. She’d definitely pulled out the stops on this one.

“Sometimes the right decision isn’t the easy decision.”

“The best thing about the story of life is that there’s always a new chapter.”

“Changing is growing—and growing is the key to living.”

“Pain is inevitable, Michael. Suffering is optional.”

There were more, but the minor buzz from the beer kicked in, bringing a welcome gauze to the wound I’d once called a chest. At least on the surface. Deep down, where the real blood still flowed and the real ache still throbbed, I’d be a mess for a while. Thank fuck Hayden and Hutton had both already promised I wouldn’t see my desk
or
bed for months after signing the contract. Now if I could only think of “work therapy” without memories of a certain gaze full of green mischief, or a pair of legs to rival JLo
and
the Queen Bey…

If I could think of
any
damn thing without associating it with her.

I snarled, but managed to confine it to my throat. The rest of the world didn’t need to deal with the noise of a man repeatedly booting himself in the gut.

Maybe another beer was in order. I had all the time in the world for wallowing.

Before I could catch the waitress’s attention, my phone let out a text
bing.
I retrieved it from my pocket, expecting a classic Mom text like
:: safe flight; text the minute you are on ground! ::
With the requisite string of smileys, of course.

“Goddammit.” No way to control
this
growl. But there was no way I expected the boot in my crotch to be replaced with one woman’s perfectly-aimed stiletto.

:: Hey. ::

I wiped my thumb over the delete key. Proud as hell of myself, I nodded at the waitress for another Alpine. Maybe I’d ask for a tequila chaser—unconventional, yes; understandable, huger yes—maybe the extra, golden prod I needed to go ahead and wipe her from my phone.

:: Have you boarded yet? ::

Delete.

:: Don’t board that plane. I need to talk to you. ::

Delete.

“Because that went so well last time?” I muttered.

:: Michael, please tell me you’re still in San Diego. ::

Delete. Although any second, she was going to remember the app I’d installed for her that morning before our Buffalo Bill’s breakfast, giving her access to my location at the touch of a button.

:: I know you’re still here. ::

“Faster than I thought, princess.” I hadn’t fallen in love with a stupid one.

Re-phrase. Hadn’t fallen over the damn cliff, beyond ridiculous, I-will-die-in-the-dragon’s-mouth-for-you, love.

Who was truly the stupid one here?

Apparently, the one who dashed his thumbs over the keys in one of the most juvenile moves invented for the modern age.

:: Who is this? ::

Before I could talk myself out of it, I stabbed the Send button. Within seconds, I envisioned her slow, pissy burn, lips all twisty and cheeks all flushed—all but demanding a kiss to bring her down to earth and back in line. Yeah. I’d do exactly that if I were anywhere near her, too. Dig my fingers into her scalp, thrust my tongue down her throat, and—