“Aerin,” I yell-whisper her name, following after her.
But it’s only when I glance down at my phone and see the text from my lawyer friend that I realize just how badly I fucked up.
READ OVER THE CONTRACT. SHE CAN’T QUIT BUT YOU’RE FREE TO FIRE HER FOR ANY REASON.
“Aerin, wait.” I run after her, only she steps into an elevator seconds before the door closes.
It’s all a misunderstanding.
I was going to fire her—and personally fund the rest of her payout—because I want to date her. I want to make it official, respectable, ethical—all the things that Aerin deserves. She’s much too driven and intelligent to summarize reports day in and day out, and she doesn’t need to be put in the middle of my drama with my father. She doesn’t need to be chained to this bizarre little agreement because of a bullshit contract.
She deserves to be free.
RUSH KNOCKS ON MY door Friday night, and I slam the lid on my laptop and push it aside.
“Come in,” I say.
“This look okay?” He points to his sweater and gingham tie get-up, complete with leather elbow patches.
“Are you going for professor-chic? Because if you are, you nailed it.”
“What’s wrong with this?”
“What isn’t wrong with it.” I wink.
Rush shuffles across the room, inspecting his reflection in the dresser mirror. “Thanks a lot, Aer. Now I’m going to have a complex.”
“You asked, I answered.” I throw my hands in the air. “Lose the sweater and you should be fine. Or replace it with a sweater less deserving of a PhD.”
My brother lingers for a bit, taking me in like there’s something off. He’s going to ask me what’s wrong in 3 … 2 … 1.
“You doing okay?” he asks. “And before you answer, remember, you can’t lie to me.”
It’s true.
He knows all of my tells. The twitch of my nose. The tapping of my fingers. The way my lips tighten just a tad.
Rush checks his watch. “I have ten minutes. Lay it on me.”
I wave my hand. “Nah. You have more important things to do. Like change out of that ugly sweater.”
I’m honestly surprised med schools don’t include a class called What to Wear When You’re Not in Scrubs.
In true Rush fashion, he ignores me, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall and giving me that concerned doctor look he’s perfected the last several years.
“It’s not working out … my contract here,” I say. “I messed up.”
“Good God, Aer. You’re not perfect. You were bound to screw up eventually.”
I don’t want to get into the details. I’m already upset with myself, I don’t need to wallow in Rush’s disappointment on top of it.
“Anyway, I think I’m going to head back to LA this week,” I say.
“Oh, yeah? You have another job lined up?”
“No. Not yet. I could. But I think I’m going to give myself a two-week breather. Maybe travel a little. Melrose said I could visit her on location. Or maybe I’ll go to Fallbrook and help Grandma Jane with the bed and breakfast.”
“She’d love that,” he says. “Did that Welles guy pay you for your first two weeks?”
I nod. “First check. Second one comes this Friday. I think. I hope …”
Either way, I have more than enough to take as much time off as I need.
Rush shrugs. “At least it wasn’t a total bust then, right?”
Financially, no.
Emotionally? Professionally? YES.
“Right,” I say, forcing a smile. “You should probably get going. Don’t want to keep Hillie waiting.”
“Don’t make any rash decisions tonight,” he says on his way out.
“When have you ever known me to make a rash decision?”
“Good point.” He waves before leaving my room, and a moment later the apartment door opens and shuts.
Lifting the lid on my laptop, I pull up the travel website. There are numerous flights from NYC to LA, all day, every day. Home is a click and a plane ride away. But now I have to decide if I’m going to quit WellesTech and risk being sued for breach of contract—or wait to be fired.
The thought of going back to that office, of seeing Calder, sends a sick swirl to my stomach, and then I remember, I haven’t eaten all day. But still.
Given the fact that he was secretly looking into firing me and he’s about to take over the company, I doubt he’d mind if I went ahead and quit.
I select a flight for Saturday and grab my debit card out of my wallet.
I’ll take my chances.
SHE IGNORED MY TEXT messages all of last night. My calls? Sent straight to voicemail. I tried calling the office on the insane off chance Aerin fled the hospital and decided to head into work, but Marta said she hadn’t seen or heard from her all afternoon.
But now, here I am, standing in front of apartment 4F in some pre-war building in SoHo, praying to God she’s here.