I sat for as long as I could, listening. When I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer, I stood. I loathed to leave. Leave him. I dug in my pocket, knowing I had a couple twenties in there. He watched me close the distance between us, pausing in front of him. For the first time since I opened my eyes, he faltered in his movements, no longer playing. Our connected gazes, however, never broke.
I tossed the money into his case. “Thank you,” I whispered.
He resumed playing, another grin appearing on his face.
His music followed me all the way up the stairs and echoed in my head all evening.
He had been at the station every night since. His presence lingered in my mind long after I left.
Time went too fast. I knew I had to get to my parents’ place. All I wanted to do was sit and listen to him for a while longer, but I knew I couldn’t. I stood, brushing off my skirt, sliding my hand in my pocket. I glanced around, realizing how to get the money into his case. He expected me to go past him on the left and head toward the stairs. Instead, I would be heading back to the tracks, which meant I would pass him on the right where the case rested on the ground. I wouldn’t stop; I wouldn’t make eye contact. I would simply breeze past and drop it in. It was a large enough target; I couldn’t miss. To be extra sure, I balled up the bills tight in my fist.
I inhaled and slung my messenger bag over my shoulder, walking toward him. Luck was with me as a few people stood in front of him, listening. He often drew a small crowd, which always pleased me, especially if they dropped money in his case. I felt his eyes on me as I approached. At the last minute, I veered to the right and went past him with hurried steps. I dropped the wad of bills into the case and watched them settle next to some coins. His guitar playing faltered, but I kept going, feeling satisfied. He accepted it from everyone else. I was his most appreciative customer, and it was important to me.
I waited on the platform to head back to my parents’ side of town. I stepped on the train and sat down. Glancing up, I was met with those intense eyes through the glass. With his guitar in its case and slung over his shoulder, he had his hands on his hips, looking at me in disapproval from the short distance. Unable to help myself, I gave him a thumbs-up.
His smile appeared—the one that lit up my world, the dimple in his cheek deep and prominent. As the train pulled away, he stepped back, then, in an old-world gesture I didn’t expect, laid his hand over his heart.
Mine sped up at the sight.
“I thought you went home to change.”
I lifted my wine to my lips, stalling for time. “Brianna talked longer than I expected.”
“You could have called her from here.”
“She wanted to Skype.”
“You—”
“Enough questioning Charlotte, Charles,” my mother interrupted. “Is Brianna all right?”
“Yeah, she’s fine. Man trouble,” I offered lamely.
My mother huffed through her nose, her impatience clear. She only approved of Brianna because of her parentage, not because she liked her as a person. I wasn’t sure my mother truly liked anyone. “There usually is with Brianna.”
My father made a strange noise. “At least she has a man in her life.”
My head fell back with a sigh. “Really, Dad? You can’t let up on that?”
He handed me the potatoes, frowning when I passed them on to my mother. “A woman your age should be married.”
“I’m only twenty-six—hardly in my dotage. When I meet the right person, I’ll get married.”
My father made a noise in the back of his throat, but otherwise changed the subject.
“Is that all you’re going to eat? I noticed you barely ate your sandwich at lunch during the meeting. You’re far too thin these days.”
“Okay… Can we stop the picking on Charlotte today?”
Mom laid down her fork. “Enough. Both of you. You’re ruining my appetite with this bickering. Charles, let the girl live her life.” She turned to me. “Show your father some respect. He deserves it.” She cleared her throat. “We are your parents, and given what we have experienced, we have every right to watch over your health. Are you unwell?”
“No,” I assured her. “I am perfectly healthy. I saw the doctor last month. Everything is normal,” I stressed.
“Then your father is right. You are too thin. Eat your dinner.”
“I’m fine. I wasn’t hungry at lunch.”
My father lifted the bowl of potatoes again in my direction. “And now?”
With a sigh, I accepted the potatoes, adding them to my plate. I wasn’t overly hungry, but if it got him off my back, I would eat the damn potatoes.
After dinner, I helped clear the table. It was June’s night off. I missed our housekeeper’s sunny disposition, but I would see her next time. I was loading the dishwasher when my mother spoke.
“You know your father is concerned, Lottie. He has told me how distracted you are in the office.”
“I’m fine.”
She frowned. “You aren’t yourself.”
I wanted to ask her if she knew who I was anymore. But I refrained.
I shut the door, straightened up, and met her serious, dark-brown eyes. Like my father, I had blue eyes, but I was built like my mother with the same chestnut-brown hair. Although hers might receive a little help these days from her favorite salon. I was small, with delicate features, the same way she was, and inside, we were both fighters. We simply fought things differently.
Except lately, the fight had gone out of me.
“It’s…work.”
“What about it?”
I shrugged, unsure how to say the words aloud.
“Are you not happy with the project? Perhaps your father could put you on a different one.”
I dragged in some much-needed oxygen. “I’m not sure I want any project, Mom.”
Understanding widened her eyes. “Lottie. Have you talked to your father about this?”
“I can’t. I don’t know how to. You know his expectations.”
“You need to speak with him. He would listen to you. He is your father, first.”
I wanted to ask her if she honestly believed that. It felt as if he were Charles first and my father a distant second. It had been that way for years.
Since the day we lost Josh.
She reached over the counter, clasping my hand, her voice low and sad. “You can’t bring him back by giving up your life, you know. He’d hate it if he knew you were trying.”
“I know,” I mumbled, shocked by her words. She never spoke of Josh. In fact, she rarely spoke of anything personal with me. She lived a life she’d once laughed at. Lunches, spa days, afternoons with “the ladies.” My parents lived in an expensive high-rise, had a housekeeper who cleaned, cooked, and did the shopping. The woman in front of me was coiffed and perfect, totally unlike the memories I still carried of my mom, pushing a grocery cart, me trailing beside her as we snacked on an open bag of crackers and she instructed Josh what brand of cereal he was allowed. Those days ended years ago. My mom, or Jo-Jo, as my dad called her, disappeared the day Josh died, and Josephine replaced her.
Our gazes locked, and for a moment, I saw her pain. For a moment, I thought she was going to say something else, but she straightened her shoulders, and the cool mask I was used to seeing reappeared.
“If you need to do this, please approach your father carefully. He has already lost enough.”
I heard the subtle warning behind her words, and I shook my head wildly. I thought of the look that would cross his face if I told him. The crushing disappointment. I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t be the one to do that to him. I already owed him so much.
“It’ll pass, Mom. The latest project is very stressful. As soon as this next project completes, I’ll take a little time off. Maybe Brianna and I will go on a vacation. I’ll be fine.”
She sighed, folding a dish towel and laying it on the counter. “I’ll be watching, Lottie.”
&
nbsp; I stood, reaching for my coat. “I had better get going.”
Mom stared at me knowingly. “Escaping while your father is on the phone so he won’t insist on a car for you?”
I bent over and kissed her cheek. “You know as well as I do that Rodney will watch me walk down the street to the subway. I am perfectly safe. I have a five-minute walk on the other end.”
She shook her head. “So independent.”
“It’s all I have.”
She regarded me, frowning. “You have a great job. Remember how important your father’s company is to him, Lottie. Many people would love to have your opportunities.”
I tamped down my retort and smiled at my mother. No one knew how important the company was to him more than I did. It had replaced everything else in his life after Josh was gone.
I also knew the fleeting moment that passed between my mother and me earlier was gone. Any hope she would speak to my father on my behalf disappeared. She always sided with him. “Of course.”
She patted my cheek. “Like you said, you can take a break when this next project is done.”
“Right. I’ll consider it later.”
“Good.”
“Goodnight, Mom.”
I hurried away, worried my father would appear from the den and stop me.
My feet dragged coming off the subway; weariness made my body feel older than my twenty-six years. I climbed the steps, welcoming the cold air as I exited the station, and I tucked my scarf tight around my neck. I walked sluggishly, not in any hurry. I doubted I would sleep much with everything on my mind.
I felt trapped. I truly despised my job, yet I had no idea how to get out of it. My father owned the firm, and I was the heir apparent. It was expected of me. My heart ached when I thought of the reason why. It should have been Josh. Like my father, he’d loved all elements of business. He soaked it all up like a sponge. He had been the golden child, groomed to take over and carry on the Prescott name. Even at his young age, he understood the nature of my father’s business and loved it. I was just the little girl, loved for being the baby of the family, with no expectations placed on me, until Josh got sick.
It happened fast. One day, he was fine. And it seemed, at least to the child I was then, the next, he was dangerously ill. Life revolved around the hospital and Josh. All I heard were discussions and plans for treatment options. Nothing else mattered. As options were tried, and failed, my parents began to shut down. When the doctors discussed stem cell treatments, my parents were tested, but they came back as not a good match. He was put on the OneMatch Network, but time was running out. All I knew was I missed my big brother, and I wanted him home. I wanted life to go back to the way it was. When the doctors suggested, despite my age, I be tested, that there was a good chance I could be a match, I saw the hope in my parents’ eyes. I’d known how important it was that it work. I had been the last hope to save Josh.
And despite being a perfect match and going ahead with the efforts, it was in vain.
I would never forget the disappointed look on my father’s face as he turned away from me when he realized it wasn’t going to work. I had failed.
The day Josh died, my entire family did. It was as if they forgot about me. I tried so hard to get their attention. To bring back the people I once knew as my parents. I excelled at school. I put aside my silly dreams of being a pastry chef and concentrated on business. I went to work for my father since I was certain that was what he wanted.
I tried to step into Josh’s shoes. To make up for his loss to my parents by giving them my life.
I failed at that as well.
Chapter 3
Lottie
It was late when I switched off my desk lamp. My clock chimed out eight bells as I slipped on my coat, stretching my sore muscles. I didn’t bother packing my laptop tonight. By the time I got home and had something to eat, it would be time to sleep, and I’d be back to work early.
I sat, unseeing, on the subway, my brain still processing the day. The meetings melted into one another, the emails and to-do lists constant. I could barely keep up. I wasn’t sleeping well, and my appetite was almost nonexistent. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep going that way.
My stop approached, and I stood, feeling the sadness of knowing I wouldn’t see him tonight. I had missed him one night last week as well. The next day, when our eyes met across the platform, I was certain I had seen relief flash across his face, but that was probably wishful thinking. I had sat for a few minutes, listening to him, letting his music soak into my soul, then headed home to another evening of more work.
I wouldn’t even have those few minutes tonight.
However, as I rounded the corner, I halted in shock when I saw him, leaning against the wall, lazily strumming his guitar, an abstract tune I hadn’t heard. He lifted his head, our gazes locked, and happiness welled in my chest. I didn’t know why he was there so late, and I didn’t care. He was there. That was all that mattered.
The station wasn’t busy, and I sat close to listen. He began another song—one of my favorites—and I relaxed back, letting my eyes shut as the notes drifted over me, low and sweet. When he began to sing, a tear slipped down my cheek at the richness of his voice. It felt as though he were singing only to me. Another wistful thought, but it was how I felt.
His voice wrapped around me like a lover’s embrace. I felt warm, soothed, and my body eased for the first time since I had left his presence last night. As the song faded away, another began, and I let myself remain. I needed that, him, so much tonight. With a sigh, I let my head fall forward, immersing myself in the song. His fingers coaxed the notes from the guitar; his voice weaved a spell around him and me.
And my miserable world disappeared.
Something was different. The music still played, but it sounded close. I blinked open my eyes, realizing in horror that I had fallen asleep in the subway station. I sat up straight, panicked.
“It’s okay. You’re okay,” a voice soothed.
I knew that voice, but not from hearing it spoken. It was always raised in song. I turned my head, shocked to find him beside me. He sat, his guitar on his lap as he strummed, never missing a note.
“I’ve been watching over you.”
“Wh–what?”
“You fell asleep. I made sure you were okay.”
I didn’t know what to say. “Thank you.”
He tilted his head and studied me. “You’re working too hard. You’re exhausted.”
I shifted, uncomfortable with his accurate observation.
“You don’t know me. I’m not sure you should be making a statement like that.”
His fingers stopped their strumming, and he rested his hands on the guitar. “I’ve overstepped. I apologize.”
“Um, okay.”
He held out his hand. “As for not knowing you, let’s change that. I’m Montgomery Logan.”
I stared at his hand. His fingers were long, the nails neatly trimmed. He waited patiently until I slipped my hand into his. He closed his fingers around mine, pressing lightly. And again, he waited, lifting one eyebrow.
“Charlotte Prescott.”
He squeezed my hand. “It’s great to meet you, Charlotte.”
“Lottie. My friends call me Lottie.”
He smiled, his dimple deepening. “My friends call me Logan. Montgomery is a mouthful.”
“Logan,” I repeated.
He nodded. “Now that we’re on a first-name basis, I assume we’re friends?”
“Okay?”
He hunched forward and winked. “You look tired, Lottie. You need to take better care of yourself.”
That made me chuckle. “Okay.”
He lifted the guitar off his lap, placing it inside the case, shutting the lid. He bent over, rested his arms on his thighs, and studied me. “You’re late tonight.”
“I was busy at work.” I paused then looked around. “Are you always here at this time?”
He grinned, his
face transforming into one of mischief. “Nope. I was waiting for you.”
“Me?” I squeaked.
“I waited last week, too. You know, the night you pulled your little stunt.”
“I didn’t see you when I got back.”
He shrugged. “I got hungry, so I went across the street and got something to eat. I saw you come out of the station, and I made sure you got home.”
“You-you what?”
“I followed you.”
I stared at him. He said it as if it meant nothing. As if following someone were normal. I swallowed, a frisson of fear running down my spine.
He chuckled, the sound low and rich. “You should see the look on your face right now. I bet you’re trying to decide if you should run now or call the cops, aren’t you?”
I licked my dry lips. “Um…”
He held up his hand. “That came out wrong. I saw you come out of the station. I stepped outside the coffee shop and watched you walk to your building.”
“How do you know it was my building?”
“I’ve seen you come out of it as I’m passing by,” he explained. “I wasn’t ‘following you,’ following you.” He held up his hands. “Honest, Lottie. I only made sure you got there safely. Then I went back inside and finished my burger.”
I mulled over his words.
“You shouldn’t be walking alone at that time of night.”
I snorted. “You sound like my father. It’s a short walk.”
He lifted one shoulder. “Just saying.”
“It’s a safe neighborhood.”
He shifted a little closer. “Still, the thought of something happening to you…” He closed his eyes, and a shudder went through him. “I don’t like it.”
“I’ll be careful,” I promised, wondering why his words caused a warmth to spread in my chest. He sounded as though he cared. For some reason, I liked thinking that he did.
Heart Strings Page 2