by Skye Darrel
Harlow clears his throat. “Everett Royce,” he introduces me to fill the growing silence. “Executive Vice President of Asset Development for Royce Innovations. You wanted to speak with my superior, Ms. Finch. That would be him.”
The girl blushes but keeps holding my gaze. I’m clutching the edge of the table. All their eyes are on me, waiting for a response, but my tongue sticks in place.
“Mr. Royce,” Harlow says. “Everett!”
That snaps me out of it. I turn my attention to April’s cousin. “You're the trespasser."
“Protester,” Camila says defiantly. “I know your company wants to tear down St. Jude to build a tech center. Kids need that hospital.”
“This city doesn’t need any more hospitals.” It’s my standard response. “This city needs jobs and revenue. My company will provide it. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I look at April again. Her expression is guarded.
“Get everyone out,” I say to Harlow. “Ms. Finch stays.”
The whole room gapes at me.
Harlow points at Camila. “What about her?”
“Cut her loose.”
“But sir—”
“Let her go, Viktor.”
“I’m not leaving without my cousin,” Camila says.
“It’s fine,” April says slowly, her eyes still on me. “Just go, Cami. I can take care of myself. Walk out and don’t look back.”
The room empties. As he leaves, Sebastian shows me a sly smirk that makes me want to punch him in the face.
“Don’t be long,” Harlow says at the door. “Those reporters are waiting.”
“I'm aware.”
The door shuts.
I sit across the table from April, and I’m thankful for the cover because now that we’re alone, my cock turns rock hard, and my eyes roam down the front of her neck. April’s blush deepens. My own face feels warm.
“You’re safe,” I say. “There are cameras in the ceiling.”
“Why wouldn’t I be safe?”
“I’m reassuring you.”
She bites her lip. “Thanks for letting Camila go.”
“Where do you go to school?”
“What’s that got to do with Camila?”
“I don’t care about your cousin. I’m talking about you. Where do you go to school?”
“I’m not in college,” she says.
“How old are you?”
“N-Nineteen.”
“Why aren’t you in college?”
“None of your business, Everett.”
I’m impressed she uses my first name just like that. “Do you work?” I ask. “Where do you live?”
“Also none of your business.”
The walls close in and my mouth feels dry. The tension in my lower body throbs painfully. I want to know more about her, taste the flavor of her lips and feel the heat of her body.
“Well that was fun,” April says, getting to her feet. “If there’s nothing else—”
I push out of my chair and stride around the table until the distance between us narrows to nothing. Close enough to smell her hair. She’s almost a full head shorter than me, and she’d have to stand on tiptoes to meet my mouth. Or I could lean down, grab her waist, and take what I want now.
I’m losing control, my insides twisting to knots.
“Do you really care about that hospital?” My voice sounds too rough. I say in a softer voice, “Answer me, April. Tell me what you think, I want to know.”
She lowers her eyes for a moment. “I used to be a patient at St. Jude."
That surprises me. “For what?”
“Not your business.”
“St. Jude only treats children with disabilities.”
Her eyes flash. “How do you know I don’t have a disability?”
“You look normal to me.”
“So a disability would make me abnormal?” She scoffs. “To answer your question, Everett, yes, I care about that hospital. Why do you want to shut it down?”
“My company purchased St. Jude last month. We own it, we can do whatever we want. And we need the land it’s sitting on for another project.”
“To build your technology center?”
“Yes.” I have no idea why I’m telling her all this, but I want to be honest and make her understand me. “That hospital is sitting on prime real estate.”
“What about the kids there? They need St. Jude.”
“Not my concern.”
“So you’re a heartless bastard.”
Her words sting more than they should. There’s no reason for me to care what she thinks—but I do. Those demonstrators outside can scream all day long and they wouldn’t have an once of the effect this girl has on me right now. It’s aggravating.
“I’m not running a damn charity, April.”
She tilts her head slightly. “You want to know what I think? Don’t close the hospital, that’s what I think. Build your stupid tech center somewhere else. Can I go now? You’re blocking my way.”
It takes every ounce of will I possess to step aside. I open the door for her. “Tell your cousin to stay out of trouble.”
“Will do.”
Sebastian and Viktor Harlow are waiting in the hallway. Camila is already gone, and April looks relieved.
We walk through the lobby to the front door. When I step outside, the reporters swarm in a circle with protesters behind them. April slips away unnoticed in the mayhem.
She ducks into the crowd and turns around, standing there between two cameramen. Our eyes connect. And once again, nothing exists in the world but her. She could walk away, but she doesn't.
Watching me.
Reporters fire a barrage of questions. More shouting from the protesters behind them. This press conference was supposed to be an orderly PR event announcing the closure of St. Jude, but that’s gone off the rails. I could care less. It’s fucking strange, but the things that mattered to me this morning no longer seem to matter.
Cops move in from across the street to restrain the crowd. I begin to speak, but shouts and accusations drown out my voice, and I hold up my hands until the protesters settle down.
I gather my voice. “The closure of St. Jude Children’s Hospital is on hold, pending further review. That will be all.”
The crowd cheers.
April’s gaze lingers on me, but she doesn’t smile. She carries a weight and a distance in her eyes that make me want to hold her, ask what’s wrong. We're in public and I can't approach her now, but I’ll find out soon enough.
The reporters surge forward as she disappears, and I signal my security to keep the crowd back. I’ve had enough of crowds for one day.
Soon. I’ll find her.
I turn around to see my brother smirking.
“What happened in that room?” Sebastian asks.
“We talked.”
“Must’ve been some talk.”
I ignore him.
When we’re back in the lobby and out of sight, Viktor Harlow clutches my elbow. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”
Harlow may be my subordinate on paper, but he answers only to Edmund Royce, my father, CEO and owner of Royce Innovations.
“Take your hand off me,” I say.
Harlow lets go, after a second. “The old man will hear about this, Everett.”
“I expect he will.”
“Dad won’t like it,” Sebastian says.
I expect he won’t.
Sebastian grins as we step into the elevator. Between the two of us, he’s always been the family fuck-up. Sebastian has never cared about what our father thinks, and I envy him that—because I care a great deal.
But I want April more.
No matter the cost.
Chapter Three
APRIL
I still can’t think straight when I pull into the driveway at my parents’ house. I left Baltimore two hours ago, right after finding Camila two blocks away from Royce Innovations. I told her what Everet
t Royce had said to me, how he’d said it, and she didn’t believe me at first.
I hardly believed it myself.
We sat in my car for a while.
“He must like you,” Camila said. “You know, like like. It’s the only explanation. Royce wants to impress you.”
“Impress me?”
“You underestimate your charms, Finchy. We can use this to our advantage. He’ll probably do whatever you say.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don't even go there.”
“Just an idea.”
Camila looked almost giddy, and I felt light-headed myself.
“I should’ve asked Everett for a million dollars,” I said. That would definitely help with my medical bills. My dad is a real estate agent and Mom works part-time in nursing. They make decent money, but I know I’m a burden on them. I’ve drained all their savings and for what? There is no cure.
“So ask him,” Camila said. “Sounds like he’d give you anything.” She tried to sound light-hearted, but my cousin knows how expensive my life can be. The irony is, after I turned eighteen I no longer qualified for free treatment at St. Jude Children’s Hospital.
Before we parted ways, Camila told me what a good deed I’d done, that I had probably saved lives. One thing’s for sure. I saved her butt from jail.
I walk up the front porch, thinking about Everett. How he’d looked at me in that tiny room with no windows, so much like a jail cell.
I can’t put my finger on it. I would call him hot—and Everett definitely is hot—but he felt cold somehow, like a perfect sculpture, except for the heat in his eyes. They were so intense I squeezed my hands under the table, fighting the urge to look away. He’s like no man I’ve ever met.
Mom greets me with a hug in the kitchen. “April, we were worried sick! What happened?”
I smile like a sheep for her. My parents and I made a deal when I decided to skip college. I can live at home and do whatever, so long as I take my medication and go to Support Group every Friday. They would treat me like an adult, or they should anyway. Mom has trouble with the like-an-adult part. Deep down, I’m glad she still considers me a part of her nest. Really deep down, I suspect we are enabling our codependencies on each other.
“Camila needed my help with something,” I say.
Mom frowns at me. “With what?”
We also agreed I wouldn’t have to tell her every little thing that happens in my life. “Mom.”
Dad walks up behind her, glasses perched low on his nose, and his smile warms my heart. “Glad you're back, kiddo. Your mother was about to report you missing.”
No surprise there. “I’m fine. Had a nice visit with Camila in the city.”
“We made buffalo chicken wings,” he says. “Your favorite.”
“Chicken wings are not my favorite.”
Dad winks. “They will be tonight.”
I can’t help laughing. My dad can always turn a few words into a joke, somehow. We go into the dining room and sit down to eat.
As always, Mom wants to know if anything inspirational happened at Support Group.
“Nope.” And I brace myself for what’s coming next.
“So, I was reading up on Dr. Reijonen again . . .” She goes on, and I sort of tune her out because this is a familiar conversation.
Since that day five years ago, when she realized no cure exists for what ails me—or no conventional cure as Mom likes to say—she’s been searching for unconventional cures. She even made me try acupuncture once. That lasted about a month before I convinced her poking holes in my skin won’t make me healthy.
Good for relieving stress though.
Her latest discovery is Dr. Lars Reijonen, this expert on genetic diseases who lives in Norway of all places. Mom’s been reading about this guy ever since she stumbled across his name on the internet.
She thinks Dr. Reijonen can help me. Somehow. Probably. Because everyone knows that Norway is world-famous for its Vikings and those mysterious doctors you find on the internet.
I smile along as she talks because the chicken wings are really good, crispy and bursting with flavor.
I also smile because I know she needs me to believe in hope, that no matter how unlikely, there is the possibility of beating my disease. I’ve accepted the absence of possibility and so has Dad, but Mom never will. She needs that hope, and she needs me to believe in it too. The thing is, even though I don’t believe in a cure, it would break my heart if Mom stopped believing.
AFTER DINNER, I change into PJs and a tank top before I hole up in my room with earbuds. No texts or calls from Camila. All quiet on Facebook and Instagram. Camila likes to post updates after one of her protests, but I guess she called it a day.
Good.
I scroll through Facebook, catching up with my friends from high school. Most are sophomores and juniors in college, spread out around the country, starting their lives. I always feel a little sad when I find out what everyone is doing, but I push the feeling away. I've learned to be happy for them, and when they’re not, I do my best to be their cheerleader.
One of my besties, Audrey, broke up with her boyfriend for the second time because she caught him watching porn on her phone. While she was watching TV next to him in their apartment. We end up texting about the joys of a boy-free existence. She’s better off single. I mean, who needs boys? Who needs drama like that?
The doorbell rings downstairs.
“April!” Mom calls. “There’s someone here for you. An Everett?”
My stomach flips. I put my phone away and rush downstairs and almost trip over when I see who’s at the door.
Everett Royce. At my doorstep. Still tall and handsome.
And vaguely threatening.
He smiles stiffly. “Hello, April.”
“What are you doing here?” I try to keep my voice steady.
“Had a question for you,” Everett says.
Mom gives me a puzzled look. Dad comes out of the kitchen and joins the scene.
Everett’s wearing slacks and a shirt that hugs his muscled physique. He had this slender grace when I met him, but without a suit on, he looks so much—thicker. It’s obvious he takes care of himself. Or I don’t know, maybe he moves heavy furniture as a hobby.
I notice the meat in his shoulders tensing when our eyes meet. My face warms.
“Are you from April’s Support Group?” Dad asks him.
Everett’s turn to look confused.
I step between them in a hurry and make the introductions. “Mom, Dad, this is Everett Royce . . .” I’d forgotten his fancy title.
“VP of Asset Development for Royce Innovations,” Everett says.
My parents trade a look. “The Royce Innovations that’s been in the news lately?” Mom asks.
“That’s us, Mrs. Finch. Pleased to meet you.”
Mom’s pupils go big. “Likewise, Mr. Royce.”
The three of them shake hands.
“How do you know our daughter?” Dad says.
Everett glances at me, and I hope he notices my please-shut-up face. “It’s complicated,” he says. “Best let April explain.”
“What do you want?” I say. My tone is sharp.
“May I speak with you in private?” Everett asks. “About what happened today.”
“What’s there to talk about?”
“Please, April. In private.”
I’d tell him to get out, but my parents have this bewildered look. No doubt they have a hundred questions I’d rather they not ask. Also, Everett said please. Also, and despite his totally crazy and unannounced appearance, I’m surprised how good I feel. He has this way of staring at me that gets my pulse racing. Like he can see the real me and likes what he sees.
“We can talk in my dad’s study.”
Everett looks to my parents for approval, which annoys me more than a little.
“Sure,” they say together.
I take him into the study. The door is soundproof, and there's no way Mom and Dad
can eavesdrop.
“How’d you even find out where I live?”
“My security took down your information.”
“Oh great.”
Everett looks me in the eye. “Am I intruding?”
“Showing up at a person’s house unannounced is pretty much the definition of intruding. What do you want? Is this about my cousin?”
He takes a step closer. “It’s about you.”
Another step closer.
My back bumps against the bookcase, and his face hovers inches from mine, a vein pulsing on his neck. I smell aftershave that reminds me of mint and metal, and a faded cologne, the fragrance tinged with an unfamiliar male scent underneath that reminds me of nothing in particular except for him. It’s a warm smell, not unpleasant.
Suddenly I’m aware of how exposed I am in my tank top.
He leans into my personal space, and I swear he’s sniffing my hair. When he pulls back to look into my eyes again, his face is tortured. Like he’s in pain.
I should shove him back and I put my hands on his chest, but I can’t bring myself to push. My heart skips in heavy beats. “What do you want?” I whisper.
No answer.
His hand skims over my bare shoulder, sending electricity down my spine. Then I glance down and see the bulge in his pants.
Heat flashes in my cheeks. I slap him before I can even think.
Everett just stands there.
My palm stings.
“I deserved that,” he says.
“Yeah.” I look away, pretending to be indignant, but my heart’s hammering a thousand miles an hour and I’m pretty sure my face is a tomato. I haven’t been this close to a boy since high school—but Everett is no boy. A normal girl would knee him between the legs and scream for help right about now.
“What do you want?” I ask again.
“Had to see you.”
“W-Why?”
“To make sure you’re okay. Outside my building today, you seemed upset.”
I snort. “It was an upsetting situation. Anyways, I’m fine.”
Everett steps back, leaning against Dad’s antique desk, and he puts his hands in his pockets as the heat in his eyes vanishes. The bulge in his crotch has gone down. He’s all proper and normal again.
I’m relieved—and slightly peeved.