Where was Rob?
What was he doing?
And why had he sold his business?
Why could she find out more details about his partying in Ibiza than what he was doing with his money?
When all her searches turned up fruitless, she gently pulled the glossy page out of the magazine and gazed at his photo over and over again. She taped it up next to her bed, like she had with pop idols as a teenager, and then cried herself to sleep staring at his picture.
Chapter Twenty-four
A week later, she was delivering a box of The Prince by Machiavelli to a nearby nursing home in anticipation of Brontë’s next book club event. She handed off the box and turned down a street, only to see a familiar head of hair disappear around a corner.
Marjorie sucked in a breath. No way. Clutching her purse to her side, she walked down the street and glanced around the corner.. . . just in time to see the man disappear around another corner.
Shoot. She eyed her shoes—five-inch-tall purple Miu Mius. She’d never catch him in these. Curse her love for adorable footwear. She grabbed one and hauled it off her foot, then the other, and tossed them into her shoulder bag. Then, she ran down the street after the man.
She wanted answers.
He was ahead of her, his dark head bobbing in the weave of traffic, his shirt a pale, bland beige. She kept that beige in the corner of her eye as she followed him up one street and down another. It was a stranger, she reminded herself. It was just a man that happened to look like him. It had to be.
But when she finally caught up with him, breathing hard from her sprint, she summoned her courage and reached out and tapped him on the shoulder.
And to her surprise, Rob turned around.
He looked just as surprised to see her. “Marjorie?” He glanced at the cross streets and moved out of the way of traffic, his hand automatically pulling her along with him. They moved under the awning of a nearby business. “What are you doing here?”
“I saw you,” she panted. “I saw you.”
And she couldn’t stop staring at him right now. Good, sweet lord, but he was pretty. His hair was newly cut, his face clean shaven. His green eyes were bright in his face, lashes thick, and he looked delicious in that open-collared button-up shirt and the slouchy jeans he wore with them. He looked just as good as she remembered, and he was pretty darn tasty in those memories.
Rob rubbed the back of his neck and looked embarrassed. “You weren’t supposed to see me.”
“Yeah, well, you forget how tall I am in heels,” she reminded him. He laughed, and looked down at her bare feet, and she wiggled her toes. “I, um, took them off to run. I wanted to see if it was you.”
“Well, this is fucking embarrassing,” he said.
It was? Her heart broke a little at that statement. “What are you doing here in New York City?”
He stared at her for a long moment before answering. “Stalking you.”
“W-what?” She could hardly believe her ears. “Stalking me?” So that was him all those times she’d thought she’d spotted him? “Why are you stalking me?”
“I’m not really stalking,” he said, glancing around and lowering his voice. “Not in a creepy, illegal way. I just miss the goddamn hell out of you and thought maybe if I got to see you from afar, now and then, it’d hurt less. Still fucking hurts quite a bit, though.”
She stared.
“Say something.”
“I-I don’t know what to say, Rob.” He was here, watching her? He was hurting? Did that mean he missed her? Or was he just pissed about how things had turned out? For days—no, weeks—she’d thought of things she would say to him if she ever saw him again. Now he was right here, inches from her . . . and her mind went blank.
Just completely, utterly blank.
The look on his face was a little disappointed. His mouth curved. “I’ll leave you alone, sweetheart. I’m sorry if I scared you.”
He turned away and she grabbed at his shirt. “Wait!”
He stopped. Turned back around to her.
“I’m not scared,” she said in a small voice. She was, though. She was terrified, and her heart was beating like a rabbit’s. She wasn’t scared of him . . . just of being hurt again. Of getting her hopes up only to have them destroyed once more.
Rob waited. Looked down at her hand, still fisted in the fabric of his shirt.
Oh. She released it and flexed her hand, feeling a little stupid. She needed to say something. Anything. Get the conversation rolling. “I saw you. In a magazine.”
The look on his face grew shuttered. “Christ. I’m sorry.” He rubbed his neck again. “Whatever it was, it was probably lies. They make up all kinds of shit to sell papers. I haven’t touched another woman since I last saw you.”
Her eyes widened. “No, not like that! It was good.” Then, she peered at him. “Who did the tabloids say you’re dating?”
“Some D-list chick with big fake cans.” He shuddered. “Horrible. Not true at all. She’s just in one of the specials that we’ve been running lately.” He paused, and then corrected himself. “They’ve.”
“I saw information about the sale. Is it true? You sold The Man Channel?”
“All of it,” he agreed, his gaze intense on her. “Every affiliate, every video, every show, magazine, anything even remotely associated with Cannon Networks. It’s all gone.” He raised a hand and mimicked a firecracker exploding. “Poof. Done.”
He was smiling as he said it. What did that mean? Why did that give her such hope? “And . . . you gave away all the money?”
“I did. I didn’t want to keep any of it. Tainted money and all that. Seemed wrong to profit off of it.”
“Tainted?” Was he just saying words that she wanted to hear? She didn’t know, and was afraid to ask. Marjorie clutched her purse strap harder, as if it could hold up her weak knees. “Are you broke now?”
“Broke?” Rob’s eyes widened and he laughed. “No, I’m not broke. I had a lot of money socked into investments and real estate, too. I’m not as disgustingly rich as I was before, but I’m not broke by a long shot, sweetheart.”
That made her feel better. It was on the tip of her tongue to point out to him, as she had so many times before, that she wasn’t his “sweetheart.” But she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
An uncomfortable silence fell between them. After a moment, Rob added, “Before you think I’ve turned over a completely new leaf, I’m looking at other avenues now. Like a bingo channel. Maybe some sort of at-home gambling for the elderly.”
She couldn’t help it—she laughed. Of course he was still thinking things up.
The look on his face was a bit mischievous. “I can’t help it. I’m not the type to sit on my hands and count my money. I see opportunity and I go after it.”
“Some things never change,” she said, smiling.
The pleased look on his face died at once. “Can’t they change?” he asked in a lower voice. “Or are you forever fucked because of choices made before you met the right person?”
Was she the “right person” he was referring to? Marjorie’s lips were dry; she licked them and felt the urge to run away from this sudden frustration. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I’ve been working my ass off to become someone you could respect. Someone you could like. Someone you can be proud of. Most of all, someone you can see yourself with. After we talked, I realized everything you were saying was true. I went through all of my life not giving a shit what anyone thought of me, because no one had ever given a shit about me. ‘Think I’m a dick? Fine. I’ll be a dick.’ But then I realized after talking with you that you have to earn respect to get respect, and I haven’t been bothering to earn it. I made a living off of tits and ass and the frat boy mentality, and so of course a decent, nice girl like you won’t give me the time of day. Why should you? I’m peddling everything that you hate. I get that, now. I don’t know if I can ever backtrack enough to undo what I’ve created, but I’m damn sure going to try.” He shrugged. “Nobody ever made me want to become something better than I was until I met you.”