style="font-size:15px;"> “You are happy about it, though, aren’t you?” she asked. “You can be honest with me. I’d appreciate it.”
She was lying. She was lying through her teeth. She didn’t want him to be honest with her. She wanted him to lie to her, lie as hard as she was lying to him. She wanted him to tell her he wasn’t happy about it at all, that he didn’t want to end it, that his hand had been forced, that if given the choice he’d throw caution to the wind and marry Allison tomorrow, even if it did cause a scandal, even if it meant his kids might never speak to him again...
“Yes,” he said. “I’m happy about it.”
“I’m happy for you, too, then.”
Another lie.
Allison had sensed that morning that today was going to be the day. Instead of calling her to let her know when he’d drop by—for sex, of course, there was no other reason he ever called her—he’d called instead to tell her he had some mail of hers he was bringing over and a pair of earrings he’d found in his bathroom drawer.
“She has her own money. She’s thirty-seven. A little bit more age-appropriate than you,” he said. A joke. He was trying to make her laugh and, damn him, it worked. But it was a very small laugh. Her lover—or, she supposed, ex-lover—was Cooper McQueen, who was very possibly a billionaire if one got creative enough with the accounting. He was also forty-five to her twenty-five. She’d been his mistress for six years, although she’d known him for seven. The worst part of it all was what a cliché the whole tawdry thing was. At eighteen she’d gotten a job working for McQueen as his daughter Emmy’s weekend babysitter.
“Congratulations,” Allison said. He was trying to spare her pain by not admitting how thrilled he was to have child number three on the way. He and his wife had divorced after two kids, and he’d confessed to her a long time ago that he always felt someone was missing from the family. Not her. She wasn’t family. She was an employee.
“It’s going to be an adventure,” he said, his voice neutral.
Going to be... He was already seeing the future with this child, with this woman. There was no talking him out of ending things. It was already done and over. Now if she could only get through the rest of this conversation without falling apart. She’d gone six years as the secret mistress of a very wealthy man without falling apart once in his presence. She hated to ruin her streak.
“Does she know about me?” Allison asked. An important question.
“I told her,” McQueen said. “After she told me.”
“She asked you to get rid of me, didn’t she?”
“No, in fact. She said I could be in the baby’s life if I wanted to keep you, but I couldn’t be in hers if you were still in the picture. For the kid’s sake, I thought we should try to make it work.”
“You should, yes,” Allison said. Even she couldn’t deny he was doing the right thing—finally.
“She told me to tell you she was very sorry,” McQueen said. “And she means it. She didn’t know about you. This isn’t personal.”
“No, of course it isn’t,” Allison said. “What’s her name?”
McQueen paused before answering as if weighing Allison’s motives in asking. “Paris. Paris Shelby.”
“Tell Ms. Shelby I appreciate that. And I understand.” Allison paused. “Must be special. You kept me through three girlfriends.”
“I’m crazy about her,” McQueen finally admitted. It was a knife in her heart. A small knife, but serrated. It did damage.
“And you’re sane about me,” she said.
McQueen sighed heavily, too wise to retort. He was a handsome man—tan, tall and lean with a twentysomething’s libido. But there was no denying he had crow’s-feet around his eyes, hair more salt than pepper and, on those rare occasions when they were together in public, people always gave them that “daughter or girlfriend?” look. She wouldn’t miss that. She needed to think of other things she wouldn’t miss, but she kept coming up empty-handed.
“Your rent’s paid through the end of the year,” McQueen said. He removed an envelope from the box and showed her the receipt inside. “I would have given you the place, but I don’t own the building. And if you want all the furniture, it’s yours. Anything you don’t want to keep, you can sell.” A surge of relief flooded through her body. She wasn’t married to the place, but she liked having a roof over her head. And it was a very nice apartment—a corner unit on the second floor of a Colonial Revival mansion in historic Old Louisville. McQueen had it furnished with an antique sofa and chairs, plush rugs on the polished wood floors and a luxurious king-size bed. Furnished for him, of course, not her. But she was relieved he wasn’t kicking her out. She had nowhere else to go.
“I appreciate the grace period,” she said.
“If you need more time, please ask for it.” He smiled and took out a smaller envelope. “And I’ve written you a letter of recommendation.”
Now that did make her laugh, loud and hard.
“Recommending me for what?” Allison asked. “Is there an employment agency for rich men looking for mistresses?”
He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “You weren’t my mistress. It’s so...”
“True?”
“Melodramatic. This was always a friendly business arrangement.”
“I see. So you’re not dumping me, then. You’re firing me.”
Allison turned away from him, back to the window and the peeling paint. Outside a knot of college students, a couple of them in red University of Louisville T-shirts, walked past the house, sweating in the sun. One girl linked arms with her boyfriend. Two other guys lightly punched each other’s arms over a joke. They must have been at most four years younger than her, if that. And yet they looked like children. Happy children. Beautiful, happy children. All children should be that happy.
“I’ll send someone to repaint,” McQueen said. “I want to make sure you get the security deposit back.”
“I can paint it myself.”
“I’ll send someone.”
“It’s my responsibility now, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“And I’m not,” she said.
“Not what?” he asked.
“Your responsibility. Not anymore.”
“That’s going to take some getting used to,” he said.
She turned back around and dug her hands deep into her jeans pockets. He never liked her to wear jeans. Or slacks or sweatpants. Skirts and dresses were his preference—or the lingerie that he bought her. One tiny rebellion, wearing jeans today. And yet she’d topped her outfit with his favorite blouse of hers—the sweet white eyelet lace top that made her look like a pretty hippie lost in time—and
