I wander down the hall and find myself once again at that imposing set of double doors which, this time, I know lead into Chase’s office. It seems like a million years ago that I stood before them in my work uniform, a binder full of artwork pressed to my chest, worrying about meeting whoever I’d find inside.
Little did I know…
I take a deep breath, steady my shoulders, and reach for the handle. As my fingers curl around the knob, I tell myself to stay strong, even if he tries to pull that caveman nonsense that steals all rational thought from my head with a single glance, a single touch, a single word.
We’re going to have a normal, adult conversation about this.
I’ll state my mind clearly, and he’ll listen respectfully.
It’ll all be fine.
And maybe, after we’ve dealt with this like normal people, we’ll make some more pancakes. Naked.
I fight a smile at that last thought, thinking it probably does not bode well for the strength of my argument, if I’ve already forgiven him in my thoughts. But I can’t help it — this is Chase, we’re talking about, after all.
So, with one more deep breath, I push open the door and step inside to face him.
And all those silly, shortsighted thoughts go right out of my head.
Because he’s not alone.
There’s a man, sitting in the seat across from him.
A man I recognize instantly — probably because I look just like him.
Milo West.
***
“Gemma,” the man says, as soon as he sees me, surprise on his face and sadness in his tone.
“Gemma,” Chase says, rising to his feet, concern in his voice and apology in his eyes.
Me, well, I don’t say anything.
I just turn on one heel and race for the elevator at the end of the hall.
“Gemma! Gemma, wait!”
I hear Chase calling me, but I don’t stop until I hit the elevator banks, flying past a startled Anita at the front desk without so much as a word. I jam my finger into the call button over and over, cursing its slowness.
“Gemma.”
Chase’s voice, winded from running, is close. I know he’s standing right behind me. My body tenses like a sprinter on the blocks, waiting for the gunshot. I don’t turn to face him. I don’t move a single muscle except for my finger, which repeatedly jabs at the call button.
“Sunshine—”
“Don’t.”
“If you’d just listen—”
“I said don’t.” My voice is scathing, shredded with anger and disbelief. “I don’t want to hear what you have to say, right now. I don’t want to be anywhere near you.”
“You shouldn’t be alone—”
“Stop.”
He sighs.