The Exception (12 page)

I wasn’t sure why I gave a fuck. It wasn’t like it made any difference to me.

I knew that she didn’t want me—not really. She wanted to fuck me and I sure as hell wanted to fuck her, too. But for some strange reason, I had a conscience about this. I didn’t want her regretting it.

Is this what guys like Max feel like all the time? Poor bastards.

As much as I hated to admit it, Jada was right. I couldn’t give her what she wanted.

I didn’t want complications. I didn’t want a relationship. I didn’t want a responsibility. I didn’t want monogamy.

I didn’t want to fucking prioritize.

And even though Jada seemed to turn a one-eighty the last time I saw her, I couldn’t take advantage of that.

I kicked my feet up on my desk.

When did I, Cane Alexander, not take advantages that were laid out in front of me? Why did I give a fuck about all of this? When did I become such a pussy?

My life revolved around a carefully constructed set of guidelines.

1. Trust no one.

2. Take responsibility for your own success and failures.

3. Embrace being alone.

Things change. Needs change. Desires change. And this setup ensured that I was able to meet my needs and desires. I was a hedonist and I was okay with that. I preferred it, really.

I had lived the past few years without thinking about one girl for very long. Ever since things ended with
her
, I vowed never to get into a relationship like that again. Women only wanted you for what you could give them and they would always trade you in if something better came along. They would lie, cheat, and destroy your life if they thought they could get a step ahead by doing it.

That’s what my mother had done to my father and what
she
had done to me.

Fuck them both.

Once I realized that all women were the same, I decided not to bother getting close to any one in particular. There was no sense in it.

So why in the hell does Jada Stanley take up so much of my mental energy?

I slammed my notepad down on my desk, the force rattling the pen holder. Black ballpoint pens hit the floor and rolled in every direction. There was probably some brilliant analogy that could be made from that, but Max wasn’t around to explain it to me.

I rubbed my temples, trying to get some clarity.

She’s not different. Not enough to change anything. Not enough to make promises.

Not enough to make an exception to the rules.

“I’m that girl.”
I heard that roll through my mind a million times and each time, I wished it were true. I had almost talked myself into going through with it anyway in hopes that it would end this ridiculous fascination I had with her. But I couldn’t because I knew that she was talking in the moment. Even I had done things in the heat of the moment that I wished I could take back.

Letting her do that to herself was unacceptable, even by my standards. It took every ounce of strength I had to walk out of there. I didn’t talk to Max the entire trip to his house, trying to wrap my head around what had transpired, trying to figure out what I was feeling.

Because fuck if I knew.

I figured if she really wanted it, she would call me. Or she would at least make some sort of indication that she meant what she had said. But that call never came.

Sighing, I sat up and flicked the cursor on my laptop to work on a bid. I needed to buckle down and focus.

The monitor sparked to life … and the orange in the background reminded me of Jada’s dress.

I lay back in my office chair and blew out a breath through my teeth. I needed to release some steam so I could actually be productive.

I picked my cell off the desk and scrolled through my texts. A quick fuck would do me some good.

Yeah, that’s what I need. That’s my problem.

I tapped my phone against my chin, trying to think of the last woman I was with. They all blended to together.

There was only one face that was clear.

Out of nowhere, something Jada once told me crossed my mind. I pulled up the search engine on my computer.

I just can’t let well enough be.

I grabbed my phone and dialed the number Google gave me.

I need to Google “therapy” while I’m at it.

A cheery voice introduced answered the phone.

“Hello.” I cleared my throat. “This is Cane Alexander. I’m not sure how to do this, but here’s what I need …”

JADA

I was on fire.

Thursday had begun with a post-crying hangover. Once the tears had started the night before, they didn’t want to stop. I knew that was going to come eventually. Even after my divorce, I didn’t cry a lot. I reasoned then that it was because I cried so much during my marriage, but apparently there were still tears inside to release.

And release they did. It was very cathartic to just let go, even if I was on the kitchen floor by myself.

I felt purified of the past with Decker, as well as the past with Cane. Decker had left scars that I knew I would carry with me forever. But Cane—I chose to believe his intentions were honorable and my pain was simply a by-product of two people trying to force something that just wasn’t meant to be.

It didn’t really matter. He walked away. There was no sense in worrying about it.

I left the house earlier than usual on Thursday morning and stopped by a little bagel shop for a coffee and a cinnamon raisin bagel with cream cheese. The girl working in the shop was sweet and we had a nice, easy conversation while I picked the raisins out of the bread and enjoyed my coffee. She told me about her love life and I offered her some advice like I knew something about the topic.

I said goodbye and made my way to my Jeep. I got in the driver’s seat before I noticed a little piece of blue paper stuck beneath the wiper. I reached out the window and grabbed it, pulling it inside.

The writing on the blue post-it note was jagged, slashed across the paper. It appeared to have been wadded up at some point or, most likely, crammed at the bottom of a book bag of a hung-over Arizona State student.

I glanced around the parking lot, but it was empty. Figuring someone got the wrong car, I wadded it into a little ball and tossed it into my cup holder.

I got to work early and dug in, catching up from my lack of enthusiasm from the days before. By two o’clock, I had skipped lunch and had nearly cleared my desk when Alice came in.

“Hey, sweetie. Do you have a minute?”

I looked up. In her hands was a large bouquet of the most beautiful orange tulips I had ever seen.

“Those are gorgeous,” I said in awe, wondering who had sent Alice flowers.

“These were delivered for you.” She peeked around the foliage and smiled smugly.

I was floored, confident I had misheard. “For me? Are you sure?” No one had ever sent me flowers in my entire life!

“Absolutely.” Alice sat them down on my desk. “I’m not sure what the dinner and flowers mean, but I hope you are happy, Jada. If anyone deserves someone to dote on them, it’s you.”

I nodded slowly as she turned and left. I stood and buried my face in the petals, inhaling the scent of the tulips; the smell and beauty instantly lifted my spirits.

I picked up the crystal vase. It was tall, slender and heavy in my hand. The vase was bursting with flowers from all angles. Excitedly, I fished through the foliage until I located the card. It was white with silver swirls in a heavier cardstock. Even it was beautiful.

Extracting it from the envelope with a shaky hand, I read it carefully.

I dropped the note, my hands still trembling. I didn’t know how to process that.

I took a deep breath and then picked up the card. I re-read it, but it didn’t make any more sense than it did the first time.

He hasn’t called me this entire time and now he sends me flowers?

I buried my face in my hands, confusion taking up residence yet again. I had pushed him away so hard and he continued to pursue me. He wore me down, had me willing to break every rule I had self-imposed, and he walked away. And now, days later when he hadn’t bothered to contact me at all, he sends me flowers?

What the hell?

I sat there a long time, pondering what to do, trying to decide what it all meant.

Should I take the flowers as a white flag? A sign that he gives up chasing me and has resorted to being friends? Or do they mean that he is sorry for walking away?

His note certainly didn’t give me any insight.

I spent the better part of an hour going back and forth with myself, trying to decide how to respond.

Eventually, manners won. A call to thank him was only appropriate … and maybe I would get a hint about his motivation. I picked up the phone and dialed his number. My heart raced faster with every ring, my mind matching my heart beat-for-beat.

Do I even care what his motivation was? Does it change anything?

Of course it doesn’t … does it?

On the fifth ring, Cane picked up. “Alexander,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Hey, Cane. It’s Jada.”

“What can I do for you?” His voice was the epitome of professional, completely devoid of emotion.

“I was just calling to thank you for the flowers. They are beautiful.”

“Flowers?” he asked, distracted. “Can you hold on for a second?”

Without waiting for a reply, I could hear him talking to someone else.

“I’m sorry, Jada. Flowers—you got them?”

“Yes. Thank you. They made me smile.”

“I’m glad. I will tell Lucy that she did well yet again.” His voice was only marginally warmer and my chest tightened.

Any hope I had been holding onto vanished.

“Please do. Have a good day, Cane,” I said quietly for fear he would hear my voice crack.

“You, too, Jada.”

I clicked the END button and stared out the window. I wasn’t sure how I felt. I was embarrassed for thinking that maybe he had wanted me and angry that I had allowed myself to think that.

Damn him! Why can’t he just go away?

This is precisely what I wanted to avoid. Yet he wormed his way into my life. Despite being very clear to him what I did and didn’t want, my self-confidence was shaken. I sighed.

He had been very clear, too. He had never denied that he didn’t want anything serious; he used women for entertainment. This was just a little chess move.

I am his entertainment.

Or maybe he pitied me. Either way—it pissed me off.

I wasn’t some naïve, I-need-a-man woman. I didn’t need anyone, especially not someone like him. I had promised myself that my next relationship would be with someone that wanted me. If I had to guess what Cane was thinking every time we interacted, he didn’t qualify.

Fuck Cane Alexander.

I moved the flowers to the windowsill so I wouldn’t have to look at them and got back to work.