Reckless Abandon (November Blue, #2)(3)

“Well...go on and read it.”

I stare at her for about five seconds before scrolling my eyes down to the email.



From: Spencer Cavanaugh, Founder, DROP

To: Carrie Roberts, Director, The Hope Foundation

Subject: Collaboration

Mrs. Roberts:

I’d like to sincerely thank you for maintaining contact with David Bryson during this trying time for my family. I want to express

to you my hope that our two organizations can continue working toward collaboration. David will be taking over day-to-day

operations at DROP as I step back to sort through my personal issues. I assure you that William Holder and Tristan MacMillian are

no longer employed by DROP and never will be in the future.

Further, I’m writing to accept full responsibility for the situation that occurred between Ms. Harris and me. It was a complete

lack of judgment and ethics on my part. As the person in a position of authority, it was my job to uphold the moral conduct I

expect out of my own employees; I failed in that regard.

If there is anything I can do to assist in retaining Ms. Harris with your organization, should she put in a leave request, please

contact me. I’ll give her a raise from my own funds, if necessary. She has a brilliant mind and would be an asset to any

organization, but her heart is with Hope.

My sister, Rachel, and David will be in contact with you soon in regards to setting up a meeting to move forward with the

collaboration, if you agree to continue.

Sincerely,

Spencer Cavanaugh

Founder, DROP



There it is. Everything that has to be said, with miles of subtext jammed between the lines. I’m not in the mood to translate

subtext today. It’s just been a week since everything went to hell in Concord, and this is the first piece of present Bo that

I’ve seen since then. During the day it all feels like so long ago, but my nightmares play it in real-time. I relive seeing the

fight at the garage near my house a week before I met Bo and finding out a couple of weeks later that Bo was involved in that

fight. Not only that, but it was related to the blackmail with his sister, and...he knew it was me at the garage after we’d hung

out a few times.

Hung out...

Today, however, I’m a damn “situation” that should have been handled differently. I don’t know why that upsets me; I feel the

same way about him—most of the time.

After staying at my place a few nights, and one half-sleepy conversation that we haven’t discussed since, Adrian had to get back

to Boston. I lied on the phone two nights ago and told him I didn’t have a nightmare the night before. I repeated the same lie

last night, telling Adrian I felt like my old self and that I’d see him after my first week back at work. I just need to be alone,

and that’s not something I can explain to Adrian. I don’t speak Y-chromosome.

The truth is, the cuts on my face and body have mostly healed, but I’m beginning to wonder if the gashes to my heart will ever

stop bleeding.

“Em?” Monica quietly leads me out of that dark place in my head.

I clear my throat. “Why didn’t you call me after you saw this?”

“Would you have wanted me to?”

“No, I guess not. Why are you showing me now?” I try to keep my irritation to a minimum.

“I don’t know, honestly. When he first sent it, I thought you might really want to leave if you knew the collaboration was still

on the table. Now...” She struggles for the right words.

“It’s OK, Mon. Thank you.”

“So, what does all of that mean?” Monica motions toward the letter. Guess she can see the subtext, too.

I shrug. “Don’t know. Looks like I was a situation.”

“Have you heard from him at all?”

He fills my thoughts, my dreams, and my nightmares. The memory of him, and his touch, pound on the door to my soul with such force

that cracks are forming in the wood. I do my best to act like no one is home by keeping the door locked and the lights off.

“Not for the first couple of days. Then he’d call and I’d ignore it. When he started calling three and four times a day, I

deleted his number from my phone. I got tired of seeing his name, and I don’t want to talk to him...I can’t.” My words throw

Monica’s eyes to the floor.

“Are you ever going to talk to him? I mean, besides work?”

I want to. I don’t want to.

“I don’t know.” I take a deep breath and turn on my computer. Monica looks me over, seeming to study my body language.

“Are we done talking about this?” she asks.

“You got it.”

“So,” her voice brightens, “is Adrian in town this week?” The sound of his name steadies my heart. Funny, a week and a half ago

it made me furious.

“He’s in Boston right now.” I allow a smile.

“That’s an interesting smile.”

“Monica,” I caution.

“Are you telling me he’s stayed at your house andnothing has happened?”

“Have we just met?” I chuckle sarcastically. “I just had my heart broken ...” I don’t finish the sentence because I can’t