Page 104 of Just My Ex

The sifting.

The molding.

The mending.

All of it.

Gabriel

I grip the six-inch picture frame in both hands as I walk through the doors of the Tate International Longdale Lake resort and make a beeline for the edges of the large, shadowy, vaulted-ceilinged lobby.

It’s called ambiance. And right now, I’m thankful for the ambiance that allows me to slink, unnoticed, past Trevor at the front desk to the back hallway where the executive offices are.

I pass the bank of elevators, knowing I’m gripping the frame too hard. I’m tethered to it, in some odd way, feeling like if I let go, everything will come crashing down around me.

It’s nothing. A cheap frame holding a glass cover and an even cheaper medallion, the kind you get at a trophy shop.

But somehow, my brain is hung up on the idea that the balance of my whole life is contained within it.

Thus, the gripping.

I glance at the plaques on the walls on either side of me as I pass each door.

Housekeeping General Office.

Accounts and Finance.

Marketing and Purchasing.

Informational Technology.

Finally, I reach the one I need and shunt out a breath because, with any luck, none of my brothers will see me before I duck inside.

Because the “wunderkind,” the “petit genie” of the Tate family—and for the record, I’ve never called myself that—has come crawling for help and I can’t face anyone.

Except the woman who opens the door after my quiet knock.

“There’s no need to knock—” She’s got her head down and back, like she’s been interrupted while doing something vastly more important at her desk, so if she could just focus on that ...

When she lifts her head, she startles a little.

“River Judkins?” I ask, even though I know it’s her. I made sure to look her up on the Tate International website before I came, so I recognize the big brown eyes and smooth blonde hair.

She’s the only one who needs to know I’m here.

Her eyes widen. “Yes?” And then they narrow as her gaze takes me in. She presses a hand to smooth down her green suit. Her head tilts back and her chin juts out. It’s almost imperceptible, but it’s clear she knows who I am.

It was going to happen anyway. Of course she needs to know who I am. Still, insecurities razor through me. Yes, she knows who I am, but she’s really not going to like me in about thirty seconds when she finds out what I’m doing here.

“I need your help.”