Start Again Series: A Billionaire Romance Box Set

by J. Saman

I don’t want to ask where he has to be at five-thirty in the evening. I can guess. “Still, it was nice that you stopped by. I’m sure it meant a lot to Kate.”

  Kyle gives me a nod, moving just a touch closer to me. I can feel him. The overpowering heat that’s radiating off his body. His masculine scent that’s permeating the small enclosure. My eyes close as my stomach coils, wound tight like a spring ready to snap. Kyle’s fingers brush along my cheek and I can’t help the breath that stutters from my lungs, unable to be held in a moment longer.

  “I miss you,” he whispers and I sigh, leaning into his touch. Needing so much more of it.

  “I miss you too,” I say back, but the doors to the elevator open at the same time, and my words are lost in the sound of people coming and going on the first floor.

  Kyle’s hand drops from my face, and his body heat leaves me, instantly covering me with a cold chill. I follow him, because we’re both going to the parking garage. He wordlessly opens the door for me, and we walk down the cement incline headed in what I assume is the direction of his car. I have no idea if my car is even parked here, but I doubt it is.

  I don’t care.

  “If you miss me, why can’t we be friends anymore?” I ask, and then feel stupid for it the moment the question passes my lips. It’s the type of thing a child would ask. But the question is out there, and I refuse to take it back.

  Kyle stops short, angling his body in my direction before a hard look covers his face, narrowing his beautiful hazel eyes. “Because Luke was right,” he snaps, and I can’t help but wince at his tone. “Ryan was too. They both warned me, you know. Everyone I know has warned me about you. You eat through men like candy before spitting them out so you don’t absorb the calories.”

  My eyes widen.

  “That’s what Luke said about you, and he wasn’t wrong. Ryan said something similar, though naturally, he was smoother about it. I was stupid for ever thinking you’d be different with me.”

  I have nothing to say to that. It may all be true, but damn that cuts. Especially from Kyle.

  “So, even though I do miss you, I’m done being the fool. I can’t just be your friend, Claire. I tried. I want so much more than that from you, and you won’t do it, so we’re fucked. That’s it. Game’s over. Show’s done.”

  And then he storms off, loud angry steps that echo against the hard concrete both above and below us.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, knowing he cannot hear the meaningless words.

  I watch him go until he turns the corner out of sight. I need to let him go. It’s for his own good. He’s so much better off without me clinging on.

  But Kyle says he loves me. That he wants more with me. And I certainly feel the same way.

  So, just what the absolute fuck am I doing?

  Instead of heading down to try and find my car, I spin around and walk straight back into the hospital with a determination I’ve never had before. I’m ready.

  26

  Claire

  * * *

  Stepping off the elevator on the sixth floor, I bang a left and head straight for the office I’ve pathologically avoided since moving out here. The moment I step inside, taking in the familiar clustered blue and green chairs, and the paisley-patterned carpet and the cream-colored walls, I start to lose my nerve. My heart is racing around my chest, mocking me, telling me I’m a fucking idiot for even entertaining this. Again.

  I move over to the receptionist. She’s new, and for some unknown reason, I don’t like that. “Hi,” I say awkwardly, my voice barely above a whisper. The waiting room is surprisingly empty, with the exception of one other person. Usually this place is packed to the brim. The receptionist looks up at me with her sweet smile and judgment-free eyes, and that gives me a surge of confidence. “I’m Claire Sullivan. I don’t have an appointment or anything, but I was wondering if Dr. Krauss could somehow squeeze me in.”

  The woman purses her lips, her eyes flickering down to the sheet in front of her.

  “Are you a patient of Dr. Krauss’s?”

  I nod.

  “I know I’m asking a lot. I mean, I can come back another time. Maybe I’ll just make an appointment.” Shit. I’m babbling, but I’m afraid if I don’t see her now, I’ll never do it.

  “No,” she says with a hint of a Midwestern accent, “you’re actually in luck, her last patient of the day never showed, and she hasn’t left yet. Let me just go back and ask if she doesn’t mind staying to see you. If she has to leave, I’ll be happy to schedule you something for another time.”

  I can’t even say anything. I just back up until my knees bump into a chair and then I sit down. I’m trying so hard not to think. So hard not to focus on exactly what I’m doing. I met Dr. Krauss for the first time when I moved to Seattle three years ago. And since then, I’ve come back a total of three times. And all three of those times, I never made it back into her office. I panicked and left. I’ve also canceled at least half a dozen appointments, so I’m surprised they even allow me to make one anymore.

  The door to the patient area opens, and then the nurse calls, “Claire?”

  My eyes slam shut and my breath stalls. I’m frozen, completely unable to move.

  “Claire?” she tries again, and like a first grader, I raise my hand. “Do you need some assistance?” she asks politely, which I give her credit for considering how ridiculous I must look.

  “No,” I manage before I blow out that breath I was holding and stand up. I wordlessly follow her through the maze of exam rooms all the way back to the last door. It’s like they did this on purpose. Like they know I’m a flight risk, and putting me closer to the exit would only encourage me to run. I’m stuck here.

  Goddamn it, Kyle Grant. What the fuck have you done to me?

  I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be doing this. I can’t do this.

  “Please remove your shoes and step up onto the scale.”

  I do. I do everything this woman asks me to right down to answering how tall I am and sitting still while she checks my blood pressure. She tells me Dr. Krauss will be right with me, and then she leaves me alone in this box of a room without the benefit of a window for me to jump out of.

  “Fuck,” I hiss through my teeth as I stand up, pacing around like the crazy person I’m becoming. My heart is pounding in my chest, and I can feel sweat tickling my cleavage. I want to throw up and die. Run and hide. All in that order.

  The door flies open, and Dr. Krauss walks in with a smile like she’s actually happy to see me. “Well, hello there,” she says, her honey-brown eyes playful.

  Evidently, I’m amusing to her.

  “I thought for sure my receptionist was mistaken when she told me a Claire Sullivan wanted an appointment.”

  “This was stupid,” I blurt out. “I should go.”

  “Sit down, Claire. Let’s talk. It’s been a while, and obviously something brought you in today.”

  I do sit down, but I can’t stop my knees from bouncing against the exam table. “I met a man,” I tell her like she’s my fucking therapist. Damn it; I’m a mess. “And I love him. But I can’t be with him, right? I mean, how can I be with him when I’m possibly dying of Huntington’s Disease?”

  Dr. Krauss walks over to me and places her hand on my shoulder, a piece of her curly chestnut hair brushing across her face. “First of all, many people with Huntington’s live full lives, including falling in love and having relationships. You know the odds of this game. We’ve talked about it more than once.”

  “Fifty-fifty,” I say automatically. “I have a fifty-percent chance of inheriting the Huntington’s gene and getting sick. But why does the fifty percent chance of getting it far outweigh the fifty percent chance of not getting it? I mean, it seems so much bigger for some reason.”

  “Because you’re scared of those odds,” she says matter-of-factly. “I can’t lie to you and tell you something about the disease that isn’t true. I can only guide you. Eighty percent of people with this g
enetic link don’t get tested for the same reasons you haven’t. They simply don’t want to know because they don’t want the disease to dictate their lives. Yet, you’ve been here a number of times, even though you left before the appointments. And the one time you did stay, we discussed not only testing, but disease and symptom progression.”

  “My mother killed herself.”

  Dr. Krauss’s expression becomes pitying, and I hate that shit. That goddamn look guts me. It’s what drives me to hide everything from everyone.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. When did this happen?”

  “Back in April.”

  She nods, gives my shoulder a good squeeze, and then walks over to her computer. “I’m going to give you a lab slip you can take with you. You don’t have to come back in here to be tested, you can go to any lab if you ever decide to do it.”

  “Why? I didn’t ask to be tested,” I snap, wondering why I’m taking this out on her.

  “You didn’t have to, Claire. You’re here. You showed up at my office at nearly five o’clock. You tell me you’re in love and that your mother committed suicide because of her Huntington’s. Part of you wants to know if you’re next or if you can have a future with this man. So, I’m giving you the slip. Put it in your purse and whenever you’re ready, have the test done.”

  “And if it’s positive?” I ask, my throat clogging with tears, the backs of my eyes stinging as I struggle to hold them in.

  “Then we’ll talk about options.”

  I shake my head, standing up and pacing around, wishing once again there was a window in this box to distract me. “I don’t think I can do it.”

  “Then that’s your choice, and there’s nothing wrong with it. I respect your decision either way, but I still want you to take this piece of paper with you in case you change your mind.”

  I snatch the lab slip out of her outstretched hand and storm out of the room without another word. I don’t mean to be a bitch to Dr. Krauss. She’s awesome, and I’m grateful that she puts up with me. But I was sort of hoping she’d restrain me, shove a needle into my arm, and draw the blood right then and there.

  Instead of heading back to my car, I walk over to the coffee shop on the first floor, needing an extra moment to clear my head. To wrap my brain around everything that just happened upstairs.

  I open the door to the coffee shop, enjoying the scent of freshly ground beans and the hissing of machines. I get in line behind two pregnant women, and I want to die. One is rubbing her belly while she smiles, joking about how she has to get her latte in decaf. The other is giggling along with her like it’s all just so funny.

  And maybe it is for them. Maybe their world is all sunshine, roses, and rainbows.

  I turn my head in the other direction and catch a couple smiling as the guy leans in for a stolen kiss. It’s sweet, and I can’t help but hate them just a little. I never really wanted a baby, so that’s not even what’s upsetting me. It’s the thought that I might not even have that choice. That if I do have Huntington’s, I could give that to my child, the way my mother did with me.

  I can’t have stolen kisses in a hospital coffee shop, because I have to push the guy I’m in love with away. Fuck this. I leave the line, walk down the long corridor, and take a right.

  The sign above me reads Lab & Radiology. Awesome.

  I walk right up to the receptionist and practically shove the lab slip that is somehow still in my hand in her face. “I need to have my blood drawn this very second or I won’t be able to do it.”

  She blinks at me a few times, her mouth popping open. “Oh, um.” She shakes her head once. “I’m sorry, but there is a wait. It’s not long. Maybe fifteen minutes. Just sign the sheet here and have a seat.”

  I’m about to beg when another person walks up, also needing some blood work, so I just sign the sheet and go sit down. They’re playing a horrible instrumental arrangement of “Hotel California” by the Eagles, and there is a kid running around, terrorizing people while his mother checks shit on her phone. Kyle said he was done, and if this test comes out positive, it doesn’t matter if he’s not.

  I don’t think I can do this. I don’t want to know. I’ve never wanted to know. And yeah, I went to see Dr. Krauss in the past. I wanted more answers than what Google could provide. But I decided that it wasn’t worth it. Because once you know, you know and that’s it.

  As Kyle said, game’s over, show’s done.

  My grandfather died in a car accident when he was forty-five. He drove head-on into a tree. They ruled it an accident at the time, but come on, clearly, he was sick with Huntington’s. My mom killed herself. Am I next? Is that what my life will be like? Punching a clock until my hour is up and then I slit my wrists in a warm bath?

  I’m not that person. And knowing will kill me.

  Ignorance is bliss to a certain extent. I’ve lived under that illusion. Sure, it was always a thought in the back of my mind, but I was functioning. I was working and happy and smiling, and living my motherfucking life.

  But if I know, then every time I drop something, or trip or forget my keys, or feel a little depressed, I’ll wonder if it’s the onset of my symptoms. Only twenty percent of people in my situation get tested, and right now, in this moment, I totally and completely get why.

  I’m terrified. Deep in my bones, suffocating, full on panic attack, terrified. I hear my exaggerated breathing. I see my hands trembling. I feel the adrenaline telling me to run.

  Not to fight. But to run.

  I’ll never be able to live knowing that my body and my mind will slowly be stolen from me. That I’m going to die either by my own hand while I’m still capable or in a hospital bed like a vegetable. I don’t know how to accept that fate. I’m not strong enough.

  I love Kyle with all my heart, I just—

  “Claire Sullivan?”

  I don’t move. I still have my lab slip clenched in my hand. It’s my turn, and I have no idea how long I’ve been sitting here, but “Hotel California” is over, and that’s a long fucking song.

  “I can’t do this,” I whisper.

  “Claire Sullivan?”

  I stand up slowly, look at the woman calling my name, and walk in the other direction. Hating life and love and all they stand for.

  27

  Claire

  * * *

  “Wanna get out of here?” the cute guy I met in the bar tonight asks me. Alan, I think he said his name was. I saw him when I walked in a couple of hours ago, but he didn’t come up to me until about forty minutes ago. But every time I looked in his direction, he was staring at me.

  “We can go to my place. I’ll make you another mojito.”

  I smile at him, because he’s cute and I had a miserable day. A miserable week, really. Who am I kidding? It’s been a miserable month. Five weeks to be exact, since that’s the last time Kyle looked at me or said more than five words to me.

  “That’s a very tempting offer, but not tonight.”

  “Okay, wanna go get some dinner at a very public place?”

  “Now?” I laugh. “It’s almost eleven.”

  “So what?” he laughs back, resting his elbow on the top of the bar. Leaning into me, his dark eyes scan my face with interest. “We live in the city. I’m sure we can find something open.”

  I shake my head no, even though part of me is tempted to say yes. I’ve had a lot of false starts. I meet a guy. Go on a date. And then I’m done. They’re never funny enough, or cute enough, or they don’t get my sense of humor, or me, or any other bullshit excuse I come up with. I don’t want any of them. None.

  “I can’t tonight. It’s late, and I need my beauty rest. Maybe another night.”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “Sure. I can do tomorrow.”

  “Text me your address, and I’ll pick you up for dinner.”

  He gives me his number, and I text him the building address that I want him to go to and the time. Then I leave him with a quick, awkward hug. Hon
estly, I don’t know why I bother. I’m not interested and I never will be.

  “Let me drive you home,” he says, lifting my chin up with his fingers until our eyes meet.

  I shake my head, trying to maintain a smile I don’t feel. “I’m good. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “See you soon, Claire.” A chill runs up my spine as I walk away from Alan Gregory into the cold Seattle night. I hop in my car, and in no time, I’m parking at my building and walking through the door of my apartment.

  I’m exhausted. I spent the entire day in a meeting with Kyle as we tried to negotiate a contract with a company from Taiwan. I can’t wait until Ryan gets back from his paternity leave and Luke comes home from his business trip, because spending a whole day cooped up in a conference room with Kyle is wrecking me.

  I miss him.

  And because of that, I even went back to the stupid hospital lab after work, and when I chickened out, again, I hit up the bar. It’s becoming a vicious cycle. Today makes my third attempt. It’s pathetic, and it makes me hate myself for being so freaking weak.

  I need a shower and to play my cello, since I don’t have my piano and I can’t bring myself to play my keyboard anymore. Music has become the only thing that brings me peace. And the twins. I can’t get enough of those nuggets.

  Just as I take off my shoes, there’s a knock on my door. This can only be one of my neighbors. I wonder what transgression I’ve committed tonight.

  I fling open the door, and the moment I do, I regret it. Because it’s not any of my stupid nosy neighbors. It’s Alan Gregory, the man from the bar. I open my mouth to speak, but he plants his fist in my right eye before I can even get a word out or slam the door in his face. I stagger back, falling to the floor as white-hot heat lights up my cheek. My eye feels like it’s exploding out of my head.

  “You should have agreed to come to my place tonight, Claire,” he says, cool as ever. He walks into my apartment, shutting and locking the door behind him. “I don’t usually follow women home, but there was just something about you. It made me . . . impatient. I knew there was no way I could postpone this moment.”