you knew they loved you back, there was a wide spectrum of sex. At one end, there was the tender, sweet, slow sex that I would call “making love,” and at the other end of it there was the rough, wild, can’t-get-enough-of-you sex that was definitely the f-word. Adam was more than proficient in both kinds.
I thought about what he’d said and frowned. “You did a good job of hiding it.”
He sighed. “I don’t know about that.” He looked back at the diary and frowned. “What ever happened to that Christian guy, by the way?”
“I let him down gently when he called to reschedule our date.”
“I would say “poor guy,” but I had to endure five years of wanting you and not having you.”
“That was entirely your own fault.” I picked up the diary I wanted and opened it up to the specific entry I was looking for: It was a night I would not likely ever forget, “Nine months before Joss showed up . . . It’s a perfect example of it being entirely your own fault.”
Sunday, October 23rd
That’s it. I give up. I’m humiliated. Confused and humiliated. And hurt. God . . . Hurt doesn’t even begin to describe it . . .
I was supposed to be spending my Saturday evening with Jenna and a few girls from uni sipping cocktails and talking about anything else but our degrees. Instead, I was in a taxi heading to Adam’s duplex apartment in Fountainbridge. I could have walked there, but I felt a sense of urgency to get there and make sure he was okay.
And I really needed to thank him for having my back, as he always had.
The last week had not been a particularly good one. That was putting it mildly.
I’d been betrayed.
Again.
But this time it was worse than ever. For the last five months I’d been dating Rich Stirling. For the last five months I’d thought I was dating a nice guy who worked in Glasgow for a recruitment agency. Then I discovered that he was, in actuality, a corporate spy for a competitor of Braden’s in Edinburgh. This property developer was so desperate to outbid Braden on a piece of coveted land down by Commercial Quay that they’d enlisted Rich to get close to me, to get close to Braden, to unearth Braden’s bid, and have his company offer more money for the land.
I wasn’t in love with Rich, but I’d let the sleazeball into my life and into my bed—and I’d given him a piece of me. I don’t think I’d ever felt so completely stupid in my entire life. All of my friends and family kept telling me I was too nice, that I didn’t have good intuition when it came to people, that I let arseholes into my life. I was finally starting to believe they were right.
I knew I could close down, refuse to let people close; be smarter, more selective . . . but that wasn’t me, and that was somehow letting Rich win. So I refused to change and there was a tiny sense of victory in that.
It still stung like a mother, though, that I couldn’t do anything, couldn’t take some kind of retribution. So when Braden turned up at my flat—this gorgeous property on Dublin Street that he’d renovated and then gifted to me—to tell me he and Adam had bumped into Rich out on the town the night before, I’d held my breath, knowing exactly what was coming.
Sure enough, Braden had had to haul Adam off of Rich and take him home to calm him down and ice his knuckles. Apparently, Adam had let the whole world know how he felt about anyone betraying me and Braden. He didn’t like it. And when he didn’t like it, he’d acquaint your face with his dislike.
As soon as Braden left, I buzzed around my flat in a tizzy, wondering what I should do. Should I call Adam and thank him? Should I go to his place and thank him in person? Should I berate him for using violence to make a point? No, that last one definitely wouldn’t wash with him. He wasn’t a violent person. In fact, although he could be intimidating and had warned off a number of bullies when I was younger, this was the first time I knew of
I thought about what he’d said and frowned. “You did a good job of hiding it.”
He sighed. “I don’t know about that.” He looked back at the diary and frowned. “What ever happened to that Christian guy, by the way?”
“I let him down gently when he called to reschedule our date.”
“I would say “poor guy,” but I had to endure five years of wanting you and not having you.”
“That was entirely your own fault.” I picked up the diary I wanted and opened it up to the specific entry I was looking for: It was a night I would not likely ever forget, “Nine months before Joss showed up . . . It’s a perfect example of it being entirely your own fault.”
Sunday, October 23rd
That’s it. I give up. I’m humiliated. Confused and humiliated. And hurt. God . . . Hurt doesn’t even begin to describe it . . .
I was supposed to be spending my Saturday evening with Jenna and a few girls from uni sipping cocktails and talking about anything else but our degrees. Instead, I was in a taxi heading to Adam’s duplex apartment in Fountainbridge. I could have walked there, but I felt a sense of urgency to get there and make sure he was okay.
And I really needed to thank him for having my back, as he always had.
The last week had not been a particularly good one. That was putting it mildly.
I’d been betrayed.
Again.
But this time it was worse than ever. For the last five months I’d been dating Rich Stirling. For the last five months I’d thought I was dating a nice guy who worked in Glasgow for a recruitment agency. Then I discovered that he was, in actuality, a corporate spy for a competitor of Braden’s in Edinburgh. This property developer was so desperate to outbid Braden on a piece of coveted land down by Commercial Quay that they’d enlisted Rich to get close to me, to get close to Braden, to unearth Braden’s bid, and have his company offer more money for the land.
I wasn’t in love with Rich, but I’d let the sleazeball into my life and into my bed—and I’d given him a piece of me. I don’t think I’d ever felt so completely stupid in my entire life. All of my friends and family kept telling me I was too nice, that I didn’t have good intuition when it came to people, that I let arseholes into my life. I was finally starting to believe they were right.
I knew I could close down, refuse to let people close; be smarter, more selective . . . but that wasn’t me, and that was somehow letting Rich win. So I refused to change and there was a tiny sense of victory in that.
It still stung like a mother, though, that I couldn’t do anything, couldn’t take some kind of retribution. So when Braden turned up at my flat—this gorgeous property on Dublin Street that he’d renovated and then gifted to me—to tell me he and Adam had bumped into Rich out on the town the night before, I’d held my breath, knowing exactly what was coming.
Sure enough, Braden had had to haul Adam off of Rich and take him home to calm him down and ice his knuckles. Apparently, Adam had let the whole world know how he felt about anyone betraying me and Braden. He didn’t like it. And when he didn’t like it, he’d acquaint your face with his dislike.
As soon as Braden left, I buzzed around my flat in a tizzy, wondering what I should do. Should I call Adam and thank him? Should I go to his place and thank him in person? Should I berate him for using violence to make a point? No, that last one definitely wouldn’t wash with him. He wasn’t a violent person. In fact, although he could be intimidating and had warned off a number of bullies when I was younger, this was the first time I knew of
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