by Krista Holt
“I think you underestimate yourself.” She shifts closer to me. “He and Saul were as thick as thieves when you left, but since you’ve returned, he gives more weight to your opinion. Even if he doesn’t tell you that.”
I glance over at my father and Saul talking to each other in hushed tones. “You’re mistaken.”
“No, I’m not. I overheard him telling Saul that he’d wait on making a decision about something until he talked to you first.” My brow rises. I wonder what that could be? “But,” she continues, “I think it’s making Saul nervous.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was talking to Enzo the other day.”
I frown at her. “Eavesdropping is a very dangerous thing to do, Gabriella.”
She waves off my concern. “He thinks you’re trying to overthrow Dad.”
“And did he mention how I’m doing this, perchance? Maybe I should take notes.”
“No, he didn’t, but Enzo was surprised.”
“Of course he was. I have no intention of doing that.”
“Are you sure? You’ve been butting heads a lot.”
I take another drink. “We shouldn’t be talking about this. You shouldn’t know anything about this.”
She shrugs. “You don’t live in this house for twenty plus years and not pick up a few secrets.”
“Still.”
“Be careful, Nic.” She stares at me pointedly. “I don’t trust him.” Her gaze shoots to Saul. “For whatever that’s worth.”
“I’ll talk to Father about the engagement tonight.” I try to shift the conversation.
“Thank you,” she says, turning her attention back to Daniel.
I lean back in my chair, watching the dynamics at play. My father and Saul. Gabriella and Daniel. Enzo and his girlfriend. I’m the odd man out. I don’t belong here.
My mother turns away from my aunt to meet my gaze. “Are you okay?” she mouths at me.
“Yeah,” I assure her, even though I’m not. I’m far from it. Reagan is going to murder me, and I can’t sit here anymore, pretending it doesn’t matter. Sliding back the chair, I excuse myself and head outside. I take a deep breath as soon as the French doors close behind me.
Still on edge, I reach for the cigar in my jacket pocket. I light it and exhale a puff of smoke into the cold air as the smallest amount of relief flows through me.
I don’t know how I’m going to fix things with Reagan this time. I doubt she’ll even talk to me. She hasn’t replied to any more of my calls or texts, and I can’t even be angry with her. Because I deserve it. I told her I’d be there, that she wouldn’t be alone. I lied.
Another smoky exhale rises into the sky as the door creaks open.
“Nicola, what are you doing out here?” my father asks.
“I needed a break. It’s a little stuffy in there.”
He nods. I take another drag, watching him out of the corner of my eye. “Why did you need me to stay?”
“I didn’t. It was your mother. She was afraid you’d hide yourself away unless I told you to be here.”
Oh. I exhale out of the corner of my mouth. “I need to get back.”
“Why?”
“The girl, we made plans. I broke them to be here today. I need to fix it if we want her to be useful.”
“You should go then. But take care of this first.” He hands me a piece of paper.
I stamp out the cigar and shove the note into my pocket to read later. “Before I do, Gabriella asked me to speak with you about Daniel.”
He frowns. “Why?”
“She wants to marry him.”
“I know she does.” He sighs. “It’s all I’ve heard about for days, weeks even. It was a mistake to let you leave the house. Estrogen surrounds me.”
“You don’t like him?”
“He’s not who I would have chosen for her.”
“Yeah, but she’s happy.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing, I guess.” I turn toward him. “But you know how she gets when she doesn’t get her way, and you’re the one who will have to live with her if that happens.”
He snorts. “Maybe you have a point.”
“And he makes a good living, not what she’s used to, but it’s decent enough.”
“How would you know that?”
“Did you think I would come here recommending you give your approval without vetting the guy?”
He gifts me a rare smile. “No, I wouldn’t think you’d be so careless.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” I confirm. “Besides, we have plenty of other problems to deal with, we don’t need Gabriella throwing her Prada around in a snit.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Good.”
“But whatever I decide is final.”
“I understand.” I shift back on my heels. “I’ll say goodbye to Ma and then leave. Traffic will be worse if I wait much longer.”
“Let me know how things with the girl progress.”
“Of course.”
“Merry Christmas, Son.”
I pause, staring at his profile. That almost sounded genuine. “Merry Christmas.”
Stepping inside, I pass Saul in the hallway. He gives me a questioning look, and I respond by flipping him off. Juvenile, I know. But it’s effective. In the dining room, I catch my mother’s eye, gesturing toward the kitchen. She excuses herself and follows me into the other room.
“I’ve got to leave,” I tell her.
“Why?”
“I have to get back to D.C. There’s something there I need to handle.”
“Let me get some leftovers to take with you.” She hurriedly looks around the kitchen.
I grab her hand, stopping her. “I’m fine. I don’t need any food.”
“Is he making you go?”
“No, it’s something I need to do.”
“If you have to.” She picks up a towel and proceeds to wipe down the already spotless counter.
I watch her for a moment. “If I need to apologize, to a woman, for something and have it stick, what would you suggest?”
She pauses, her back still to me. “Don’t try to buy anything. It never works.”
“Okay. What then?”
“A apology means nothing without a change in behavior.” She turns around, looking at me with interest. “Otherwise it’s just meaningless words.”
That’s what I’m afraid of. My jaw tightens.
“Who is this for?”
I shouldn’t say anything else. “Nothing, forget I mentioned it.”
She nods thoughtfully. “Okay. Be safe, will you?”
“Sure thing, Ma.” I hug her quickly and then sneak out of the house through a side door.
Traffic on the way back is awful, like I expected. I sit in the gridlock, debating calling Reagan. I tell myself that if I sit here for ten more minutes, it’s a sign that I should call her. Ten minutes pass, and then twenty, and I still don’t reach for the phone.
I don’t know what to say. My actions aren’t going to change, so why should I bother with the apology? She probably doesn’t want it anyway. I can’t leave it alone though. Some part of me wants to reassure her. I grab the phone and take the coward’s way out, sending her a text.
I’m sorry. Let me explain.
She doesn’t reply, but the traffic clears.
* * *
It’s pitch black as I drive into the heart of Virginia.
The instructions on my father’s note made this little trip into the middle of nowhere necessary. Only he would have me doing something like this on a holiday. Nothing is sacred anymore.
I slow the Mercedes to a crawl as I turn onto a dirt road, biting back a curse when the cattle guard rattles the car like a tin can. Flicking off the headlights, I let the moon illuminate the dirt road that leads to a fallow field a few miles back.
A shiver runs up my spine as I throw open the door. The sudden temperature drop is impossible to ignore. I
pop open the trunk and reach around the lumpy tarp-wrapped package for the shovel before leaning it against the bumper.
After emptying my pockets of anything important, I roll up my sleeves and slide on some gloves. Slowly, I tread into the tilled soil, ignoring the way my stomach drops as I sink into the soft dirt, the cold earth burying my shoes.
I pick a spot, and push the shovel into the ground. The first shovelful turns over easily enough.
And then the next.
And the one after that.
* * *
The sun peeks over the horizon, when I throw the last of the dirt back where I found it. Leaning against the shovel, I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the hem of my shirt and take a moment to catch my breath.
The sky is tinged pink. I squint at the brightness. It’s so quiet out here, so still, it’d be enjoyable to watch the sun rise, if my hands weren’t filthy.
I shake the excess dirt from the shovel and toss it onto the plastic lining in the now empty trunk. I strip off my clothes and shoes, placing them in a brown paper bag before grabbing a towel to wipe down my face and hands.
Once I’m redressed in clean clothes and different shoes, I check my surroundings one last time, making sure I haven’t left anything behind, other than what I meant to.
Orange streaks over the horizon as I drive off, heading to the nearest carwash, then hopefully to get some sleep. But it’s not what I really need.
CHAPTER 30
Reagan
“I know you’re in there. Open up and let me explain,” Nic says from outside my apartment. His hand smacks against the wood door in frustration. “Please, Reagan.”
I unlock it and walk away. Seconds later, he enters the apartment, and then he appears in my room.
“I can explain.”
“I don’t care,” I reply, shoving my arms into a dark green sweater and belting it around my waist.
“I messed up.”
“You’re a broken record.”
The bed squeaks as he sits on the edge of it. I hide in my very small closet, not wanting to look at him.
“My mother asked me to stay,” he says after a moment of silence, “I couldn’t say no.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t want anymore of his excuses.
“Did you hear me?”
“I did. I just don’t care. You should go.”
“I’m trying to explain.” He sighs. “I’m trying to juggle all these expectations I have. I know you keep getting the short end of the stick. I’m sorry, but I’m trying my best.”
I face him, leaning against the closet door. My eyes are bone dry, not a tear in sight. “Why do your explanations only come after you hurt me?”
He grimaces and lines mar his strong forehead.
“Most people offer them beforehand, to prevent that.” I cross my arms over my chest.
“I kept hoping I’d make it.”
“Okay.” I stare at him blankly. “Was that all?”
“Don’t do this.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You are, you’re freezing me out.” He runs his hands down his thighs. “Tell me how to fix this.”
“You can’t, and I don’t want to argue about this. I’m making some coffee, do you want some?”
His jaw drops slightly. “Uh, sure.”
He follows me to the kitchen. I fill the coffee pot and hit the brew button.
“That’s it?” He leans against the counter.
“What?” I find some clean coffee cups in the dishwasher and grab the creamer out of the fridge.
“I was expecting more . . . yelling.”
“Why?”
“I disappeared on you, again,” he says, like I wasn’t aware.
“It’s what you do.”
He grimaces. “Would you just let me have it? This indifference is worse than your anger.”
The coffee maker beeps as it finishes brewing. “Do you want sugar?”
“Reagan!”
Something inside me snaps. I grab an empty coffee cup and throw it at the wall near his head. He dodges, and it misses him completely, falling in pieces to the floor. My chest heaves.
“How many times is going to be enough for you?” I shout. “How many times do you want to do this to me? Tell me? How many more scars do I have to bear before it’s enough for you?” My hand grabs the other mug. He eyes me warily, his body tense, ready to dodge another cup if needed. “Tell me! Because I can’t seem to stay away from you, and all you keep doing is hurting me. So tell me—tell me how many more times do I have to go through this before you get tired of it!”
He’s silent, jaw clenched, staring at the mess I made.
“You don’t have anything to say. What a surprise!” I jerk open the pantry cabinet and grab the broom and dustpan.
He’s suddenly beside me, taking them from me. “It’s probably best I do this.”
“That’d be the first time you actually clean up one of your messes, wouldn’t it?” I brush past him.
Sitting on the couch, I turn the television on and flip through the channels aggressively. He joins me eventually.
“Can we talk about this?” he asks roughly. Exhaustion is written all over him. But I don’t care. I can’t care.
“No, I think you should go before I do something else I regret. I am not this person. You’re turning me into someone I don’t like.”
He shirks out of his suit jacket, tossing it onto a nearby chair. “I can’t leave.”
“You mean you won’t.” I glare at him.
“I mean I can’t. I can’t stand seeing you like this.”
“Then stop doing it. Just leave.” My voice cracks a little. “Leave.”
“No.”
“Then I will.”
I jump up from the couch, and slam the door to my room. I fall into bed and pull the covers over my head, willing sleep to put me out of my misery.
* * *
He’s asleep on the couch when I come out.
I stand here for I don’t know how long, thinking. I’m so angry, and it’s not about him not showing up when he’s supposed to. It’s more than that. His secrets are growing, like a dark cloud looming. The atmosphere around us is shifting, and eventually it’ll rain. The only question is, how long until the downpour? How long until this all blows up around us?
He mutters something in his sleep that sounds suspiciously like my name, but I steel myself against it.
His phone rings, and with tentative steps, I grab it off the table where he left it and hit ignore, sending an unknown number to voicemail.
He’s still sound asleep as I slide my thumb across the screen. It shakes, denying me access.
Did he keep the same passcode? I bite my lip and type in the date we met.
The screen switches, opening his recent texts messages. I scroll through them, but the only ones there are mine.
His recent calls are empty, too, other than the call he just missed. There’s no email account linked to his phone. No apps. No cities show up on the weather display. Even the location services is disabled. His contacts only have one entry, mine.
He stirs, and I quickly lock the phone, setting it back on the table. When his dark brown eyes don’t appear, I move over to where he discarded his jacket. Carefully, I search the pockets, but all I find is a set of keys. One is obviously for his car, I can tell by the emblem, but I have no clue what the other ones open. My hand tightens around the keys, tempted to search his car, but then I put them back.
I grab a blanket and sit cross-legged in the chair across from him, studying him. This would all be so much easier if he hadn’t made me fall in love him. And now, there’s no way I’m getting out with my heart intact.
Nic sleeps for hours, and after a while my stomach grumbles. It’s been hours since I ate, and days since I ate anything substantial. I search the kitchen before deciding to order Chinese . . . a lot of it.
The food arrives quickly, and I’m about to open the door when he
appears behind me. “I’ve got this.”
“Okay, then.” I turn back to the kitchen, gathering plates and napkins.
Nic pays the guy and sets the food on the coffee table. We open the cartons in silence. His gaze is heavy when it lands on me.
“Soy sauce?” I hold a plastic packet out to him.
He takes it, but doesn’t release my hand. “That’s it?”
“What?” I avoid his gaze.
“We aren’t going to talk about this morning?”
“Do you have something else to say?”
He pauses. “No.”
“Then, no, we aren’t.” His forehead wrinkles in confusion. “I don’t know what you want from me.” I sigh. “We said we weren’t going to argue anymore. This is me not arguing.”
“I’m sorry for leaving.”
“So you said.” I reach around him for the egg rolls.
“I’ll make it up to you.”
My eyes fix him with a glare.
He curses. “I know I’ve said that a lot. I mean it, though.”
“I want to believe you.”
“This will get easier. I promise. It’ll get easier in time.” He leans forward, each of his hands cupping my jaw. “I swear to you. You are my priority. I will always be here, Reagan.” His eyes bore into mine. “Tell me you believe me.”
“I believe you.” I stare back at him, ignoring the hollowness in the pit of my stomach.
His gaze narrows as he searches my face. “You don’t.”
I lick my lips nervously. “No, I don’t.”
“I’m going to fix that.”
My phone beeps somewhere in the background, saving me. I scramble off the floor to get it. It’s a text from Simmons.
We need to meet.
I glance over my shoulder at Nic. He’s picked up his chopsticks and dug back into his food, not paying attention.
Why?
I hit send.
It’s important. Tomorrow? Usual spot?
“My head is killing me. You got anything for a headache?” Nic asks, drawing my attention to him.
“Uh, sure.” I head to the kitchen and grab some aspirin and a bottle of water, when another text from Simmons arrives.
You want out? This is your chance. Meet me tomorrow at noon.
My hand shakes slightly as I text back.
I’ll be there.
In the living room, I hand the pills and the water to Nic. He grabs my hand, holding it tight.