by Kendall Ryan
“You guys at Tate & Cane seem to have it all figured out.” He takes another bite. We haven’t even talked business, but I already know I have him right where I want him.
“We work hard, we play hard, and most of all, we get it. You’re a busy man with a lot on your plate. If we can make your job a little bit easier, that’s what we’re here for.”
He makes a sound that sounds a lot like approval.
My gaze swings over to find Olivia again and she gives me a quick thumbs-up. She’s bounced from table to table, doing her best to show each guest the same level of personalized treatment and respect. She approaches every conversation like it’s the only one that matters, like the person in front of her is the most important, interesting thing in the world. It’s a major talent, that’s for sure.
I don’t have to tally tonight’s numbers to know we’ve been more than successful at winning over new clients and striking new deals with existing clients. And best of all, it’s been easy, casual, and fun. I’m in awe. My wife is one amazing creature.
Later, I throw Howard’s trash away along with mine, and get us each a fresh beer. “Thanks for being here tonight.”
He rises to his feet. “Hey, no problem.” His right hand disappears into his pocket, and a second later he hands me his business card. “Here’s my direct cell. Let’s talk late next week when I’m back from China. I’d love to see what we could do with some fresh talent helping us.”
I nod. “I’d like that.” My pocket is full of business cards and promises for follow-up meetings. I can’t recall the last time business has been so good.
Toward the end of the evening, I’m itching to send everyone off with their parting gifts—goodie bags filled with fine French chocolates and a gift card for a massage on us—and get Olivia alone. But there are still at least a dozen people here, along with a couple of corporate bigwigs jumping in a bouncy house.
I chuckle and head over to sit with Olivia. She’s abandoned her heels and is perched on a bar stool deep in conversation with Estelle from Parrish Footwear, the woman who, when we were first dating, Olivia thought I was flirting with at a business dinner. It’s good to see them getting along like old friends. Laughing and smiling as they talk.
Just before I reach them, Olivia rises from her stool, excusing herself to take a phone call. I’m not sure what could be so important that she’d cut a client meeting short, so I watch her from the corner of my eye. Her brow furrows and she paces back and forth as she listens to the caller on the other end.
If this is Bradford fucking Daniels again, so help me God . . .
“Babe?” I place my hand on her wrist.
“I’ll be right there. Thanks.” She hangs up and swallows hard.
“Snowflake?”
“It’s my dad.” Her voice cracks ever so slightly. But that small loss of control tells me everything. If she can’t keep her cool in public, in front of so many guests . . . whatever she just heard must be devastating.
I know that she’d never be able to live with herself if she broke down within earshot of our guests. With my hand on her lower back, I quickly usher her from the banquet room and out the front doors.
Once we’re outside, she inhales a huge breath and tears spill from her eyes.
“What is it?”
“His nurse called. He’s being rushed to the ER. He fell and hit his head.”
Shit. Ever since Fred’s final treatment failed a few weeks ago, his health has been getting progressively worse. So much so that he rarely comes into the office anymore, and he hired a nurse to watch over him at home.
“You need to go,” I say. “Go to the hospital and be with him.”
“Are you sure? What about . . .” Her gaze drifts back to the party, where we can still hear the band playing and the guests’ happy chatter.
I grip her shoulders and lean in to press a kiss to her lips. “I’ve got this. We’re wrapping up anyway.”
She nods and wipes away the tears that keep escaping despite her bravery.
“Do you want me to come with you?” I offer.
She shakes her head. “No. Make sure you see everyone out and follow up on every deal.”
A smile crosses my lips. “Of course I will. I’ll see you at home later?”
“Yes, I think so.”
We share a small, meaningful kiss, and then she’s gone.
Chapter Nine
Olivia
Two weeks and what feels like fifty gallons of coffee later, Noah and I have closed all the deals we started at our big beach bash.
It seems like half of New York City is still buzzing about that party. Our company’s financial future is about as secure as it’s going to get—we’ve got a dozen fat new contracts and three times as many promising network contacts to tap into for years to come. Tate & Cane Enterprises is doing amazing. I should be on top of the world . . .
Except this morning, I woke up to a voice mail from the hospital. Dad’s health has taken a sudden turn for the worse.
Two weeks ago, on the evening of the big networking gala, Dad was apparently working late in his study—which he shouldn’t have been doing, damn it, but I’ve never been able to keep him away from his job. He fell down in the hallway somehow, probably on the way to the bathroom. He either stumbled or just plain passed out. His night nurse found him lying unconscious and called 911.
That night, it was all I could do to keep from bursting into terrified, angry tears as I drove at top speed toward the hospital. Every horrible thing that might have happened to Dad flashed through my brain in a gruesome slide show. God only knew how long he was lying there on the carpet. He could have died right then.
Screw the party—I should have been there. I should have checked in on him more often. Hell, I should have found a way to keep his stubborn ass in bed in the first place. If I’d just tried harder, looked after him more closely, been a better daughter . . .
A blaring honk jerks my attention back to the road. I try to concentrate on getting to the hospital again without adding another family casualty to the mix. Those self-blaming thoughts were unproductive two weeks ago, and brooding over them now is no better. But they still gnaw at the back of my mind.
After what feels like hours but is probably only twenty minutes, I reach the hospital. I park in the rear lot, shove a handful of quarters into the meter, and rush inside. I check in with the front desk nurse, but I don’t need her to direct me to Dad’s room in the oncology wing anymore. I know its location by heart now: third floor, turn right twice, last door on the left, number 302. Too impatient to wait for the elevator, I take the stairs two at a time.
As I open the door, I suck in a breath when I catch sight of Dad. Even after visiting him half a dozen times in the past two weeks, it’s still scary to see him in such grave condition. The friendly giant of my childhood, the wise, gentle god who always knew exactly what to do, now lies pale and haggard in a hospital bed with a dizzying array of tubes and wires and beeping machines all around him. His mortality stalks closer and closer, slow but inexorable—it doesn’t need to hurry, because it knows it will catch its prey in the end—and I have no choice but to stare the beast right in its bloodshot, jaundiced eye.
I hate this.
I want to fix every single thing, make all his pain and sickness go away.
But I’m powerless.
When I sit in the single chair at his bedside, Dad stirs and his eyes drift open. He sits up with a slight effort. “Olivia . . . how are you, sweetheart?” Maybe it’s just my imagination, but his voice sounds a little hoarse.
A gloomy laugh vomits up my throat. He’s lying here looking so weak, and he’s asking me how I am? “Never mind, that’s not important. Are you okay? What happened? How long do they think you’re going to be here?”
The spot where he split his head and needed stitches is now just a faint line above his eyebrow. It’s healed nicely. But it’s the stuff inside that counts. That’s where the sickness I can’t see or fig
ht lurks.
“Slow down, sweetie, one question at a time. I just had another little dizzy spell. Probably from the chemotherapy more than the cancer itself. And they don’t know yet; they’re still running tests. I swear those vampires have sucked out half my blood. But the doctor said it could be anywhere from a couple more weeks all the way to . . .”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. Dad lets his sentence trail off, but I know what he would have said. All the way to the end.
Dad shifts a little to lay his clammy hand over mine. “Now, tell me how things are going with you.”
Stubborn old man. But if he wants a distraction, I guess I can’t blame him. And it’ll probably ease his mind to hear about our good fortune. I tug my cardigan over my shoulders since the air-conditioning in this place is always set to frigid, and I lean in closer to Dad.
“I’m not quite done running the numbers yet . . .” Before everything went totally off the rails today, my plan was to finalize everything by lunchtime. “But I think we’re pretty much back on track. My projections have been looking better than ever. I’d say things are in the bag.”
The board meeting isn’t for another few days, so their decision still remains to be seen, but barring any random disasters, Tate & Cane will almost certainly be safe from their swinging ax.
Dad interrupts my thoughts with a gravelly chuckle. “That’s not what I meant, sweetheart. I wanted to know how you are.”
Oh. It takes me a moment to process the question. “I’m fine,” I say with a confused shrug. Exhausted from pulling two weeks of crazy overtime and weak from panic over Dad’s health, sure . . . but a good night’s sleep can take care of that. Or the former problem, at least. “Why do you ask?” Surely he has more important things to worry about.
“Because you’re my daughter, and no matter what happens, you’ll always be my baby girl. And because you don’t sound so sure. Are you happy? How are things with Noah?”
Oh fuck. I have no idea. Where do I even begin?
“I guess . . . I don’t know,” I admit.
“Still?” His eyebrow raises.
“What with your health and all the craziness at work lately, I haven’t exactly had much time to focus on my own life,” I say, defending myself. And Dad’s latest episode has driven everything else straight out of my head.
“That’s no reason to put yourself last, sweetheart. Someday I’ll be gone, and success comes and goes on its own schedule, but you’re the only you you’ve got. And love . . . if you nurture it well, love will always be there to keep you strong. So it’s important to take time to put your own house in order.”
His words hit me square in the chest. Helpless to disagree, I nod. “Okay, Dad. I promise I’ll work on it.”
Not to mention the fact that he’s right, of course. I can’t avoid it any longer. This uncertainty about our relationship has been eating me up inside. And no amount of throwing myself into work has helped.
“That’s my smart girl. Now, go ahead and get on with your day. I’ll be all right without you hovering over me.” He winks at me and I smile despite myself.
With another squeeze of his hand, I kiss him on the cheek and shake my head. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll stay for a couple hours, Dad. Work can wait.”
The need to be in his presence, to hear his soft breathing, to smell his musky soap smell is almost a physical ache. I don’t even want to think about the fact that there will come a time when I can no longer have those things.
He nods. “Fine by me, sweetie.”
• • •
Later, on my way back from the hospital to the office building, orange construction signs block the road I normally take. I haul the steering wheel over with a growl to find another route. Today, of all possible days, is when the city finally gets off its ass and fixes potholes? Sweet Jesus, I don’t have time for this crap—
Well, really, I have plenty of time. It’s just the patience I don’t have. One more thing and my hair might catch fire from stress.
Manhattan’s maze of one-way streets forces me to take a wide detour. Waiting at a red light that’s so long I swear it must be broken, I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, looking around the street just to pass the time. I don’t often come to this precise part of town. Although . . .
Huh, that tea shop looks familiar.
A slow smile uncurls on my lips. It’s the place where I bought Noah our Japanese teapot as a housewarming gift. I still remember that night, the first in our new shared penthouse. The teapot was a peace offering. An acknowledgment that we weren’t in harmony yet, but we could get there if we tried—and I was willing to try.
God, and I’d been so nervous that night. Moving into a shiny new penthouse apartment with a man as gorgeous and sexy and bold as Noah. When I remember the careful way he agreed to go slow and nurtured a tender make-out session between us, it seems almost comical.
Warmth floods my chest and I have to laugh out loud. I kept totally missing the picture, so fate had to smack me in the face with it. It’s almost ironic that such a simple coincidence tells me what I should have realized so long ago.
I’m in love with Noah.
Somewhere between our shared childhoods and the first time we slept together, I fell hard for that wonderful, maddening, passionate man, with no hope of ever coming back. And even when I was so angry at Noah I could spit, I was still in love with him. I guess Dad was right about love always being there . . . although that’s probably not the way he meant it.
But my euphoria soon deflates. No matter what I feel, I still don’t know where we stand. No matter how generously I try to see things from his perspective, no matter how many times he says he made a horrible mistake and he’ll never, ever do it again, nothing can erase the fact that he lied to me. He withheld vital information from me in order to control how I feel about him.
I didn’t tell you something awkward because I was afraid to lose you is an understandable human weakness, but it’s still manipulative. And the memory of seeing him in our bathroom with that needle still gives me goosebumps.
So even if I do love him, I have no idea what to do with this information. Or even what I want to do. My heart is still split between hating Noah and missing him, so badly it feels like a piece of me has been torn out.
I let out a huff of frustration. Whenever we’re together, I immediately find myself gravitating toward him as if nothing bad ever happened between us. Our attraction is a force of nature. Opposite magnetic poles that have always been, and will always be, drawn together.
And it’s not just my body—although God knows I can’t keep my hands off him, no matter how hard I try. Our minds and personalities fit into each other’s gaps. Our business strategies weren’t quite enough on their own, but when united, they pulled the company out of the red. And when I was suddenly called away from the party, I automatically trusted Noah to handle everything. Me, the control freak who took forever to learn how to unclench and delegate to her own best friend.
We complete each other. So perfectly, I can’t help but wonder . . .
Maybe there’s a way we can make this work after all.
For the past several weeks, I’ve been doing what I always do in hairy social situations—repressing the hell out of my emotions by immersing myself in work, like an ostrich burying her head in the sand. I had hoped that, with enough time and space, my feelings would naturally settle enough to let me articulate and sort through them.
But that tactic clearly hasn’t worked. Putting my emotions on ice was just a poor excuse for procrastination—it wasn’t a real problem-solving strategy. I just didn’t want to deal with the problem at all. A relationship isn’t the kind of thing that can solve itself with a little percolating. Geez, this marriage thing is hard.
And my other favorite strategies won’t work, either. I can be hyper-logical and organized, I can list pros and cons all day, and it still won’t help me get to the heart of the matter. Everything ultimately boils d
own to my choice. My messy, scary, no-safety-net choice.
If I love him . . . will I wind up hurt one day?
I hate how vague and painful everything feels. I’m so used to cold, hard numbers, to having something objective to grasp onto, to letting facts and figures and statistics point me toward the right answer, or at least help guide me part of the way. Now, I’m all on my own.
Well, actually, I’m not. I have a partner in all of this. Which is part of the problem, but also part of the solution.
Complete forgiveness is one thing; I still don’t know if I’m ready for that. But right this moment, all I really need is closure. I need some sense of where we’re headed, because I can’t stand living in this awkward limbo any longer. I can’t go about my daily life, trying not to look at or touch the man whose workplace I share all day and whose bed I share all night. Sleeping curled up tight, facing opposite directions, the few feet between us feeling like a frigid mile.
We can’t keep drifting through this uncomfortable space, peering nervously over the edge of the rift between us, waiting for something to either drag us away or tip us into the abyss. We need to take a step under our own power. We need to hash things out and make a well-considered decision that we can stick to.
As for what that decision might be . . .
I don’t want to end our relationship. The only alternative is to continue it, and that will take a leap of faith. Would it really be the end of the world if I gave Noah another chance?
I almost have to smile. Yet another trial period—our relationship seems to have a pattern going here. Although this one might be the most important of all. Can Noah transition from my crush to my frenemy to my happily-ever-after?
No, I’m getting ahead of myself. All I know for sure is that we need to have a long conversation tonight.
I turn my car toward home, intent on doing just that. But part of me still hopes that maybe, just maybe . . . some things really are that simple. Or at least, simpler than they’ve seemed lately.