I miss Roman.
There’s a hole in my chest. My heart twists every time I think about him. I miss the low rumble of his voice. I miss the way he smells. I miss everything—from his hair, to the taste of his tongue, to the way he chews on the inside of his cheek whenever he’s deep in thought.
It’s not like missing a limb. His absence is much more painful than that.
I’m so conflicted that it’s paralyzing.
My work’s suffering. I can’t concentrate. I can’t bring myself to care about whatever media campaign we’re trying to organize, or about that company merger I’d been so passionate about just a month and a half before. Success used to drive me. It was my fuel, what I needed to push and push until I was at the very top.
And now I realize that it doesn’t matter. My fancy clothes, jewelry, fame and fortune. It doesn’t matter if I have no one to share it with.
Roman and I were distant growing up. The more I think about it, the more I realize it was my fault. I used to think he was encroaching on my family, stealing attention away from my last living relative and caretaker. I was an only child; spoiled that way. I know it isn’t an excuse, but it is what it is. I didn’t like sharing anything with Roman, wanted to push myself harder and harder to shine brighter than him in the hopes that Uncle Charles wouldn’t forget about me. In the hopes that Uncle Charles would finally deliver some praise.
It’s ironic that Roman’s the only one I want to share things with now. He’s shown me I don’t need material things to feel complete. Roman seems so happy and satisfied with his work, helping those who have less than himself.
I want that. I want to do good too.
I just don’t know where to start.
The temperature is jacked all the way up in my apartment to give off some resemblance of the Cayman’s lovely heat. It doesn’t quite do the trick, but I can’t go back to my frigid ways. Life before the accident was all about efficiency. Staying on my toes. Adhering to a strict routine. I think my time on the island has mellowed me out drastically. All I want to do is lounge around and spend time smelling the roses.
I’m splayed out on my leather couch in the living room. I’ve got the seventy-inch flatscreen on, turned to the Hallmark channel. Some sappy romantic comedy is playing, violin music swelling over the protagonist’s heartfelt speech. It’s a cookie-cutter story. The characters are kind of bland. I personally think the heroine could grow a pair and stop crying every ten minutes, but that’s just me. There’s a tub of chocolate chip mint ice cream balanced precariously on the flat of my stomach. Spoonful by spoonful, I empty it out in a trance-like state.
I wonder what Roman’s up to.
I’m not as angry as I was when I learned the truth. Time has dulled my fury. Now I’m simply confused and hurt.
At first, I thought Roman was after my money. I thought he was doing this to hurt me. I’ve had a lot of space to cool down, and I’m slowly putting together the bigger picture. I don’t think he wanted to lie to me. Roman’s always been too good of a man to be dishonest. I think back to all the times when he looked downright sick to his stomach. The guilt was probably eating him alive.
While my memories were gone, all Roman did was look out for me. He never brought up the issue of the inheritance, didn’t try to overtly sabotage me. He made sure I wanted for nothing, gave me the time I didn’t know I needed to relax and recuperate. When he said he loved me, it sounded like he was telling the truth.
He meant it. Every word.
I think that’s why I’m so confused. Was he ever going to tell me the truth? What was his end game? Did he even have one?
I anxiously rub the red line tattooed around my ring finger.
It’s said that soulmates are connected by this invisible red string.
It can tangle and get knotted, but it will never break.
Fate is a funny thing. I personally don’t believe in destiny or karma because that means I’m ultimately not the one in control, not the one sitting in the driver’s seat of my life. I like to think I am where I am now because of all the hard work and dedication I put in to be the very best. I’m at the top of the mountain, enjoying the view from on high. But there’s no one to share the view with.
Against all odds, Roman became a part of my life no matter how much I resisted. Thinking about all the things that had to go right in order for Uncle Charles to take him in, to have him grow up to be the man he is now, to show up at the hotel in time to take care of me after the accident—it’s overwhelming. What if we’d never met as children? What if we hadn’t grown up together? What if I’d been all alone when I woke up in the hospital without a clue as to my name, my past, or certainty of my future?
The movie on TV’s still going. The male love interest is booking it down the busy street of New York, shoving past pedestrians and narrowly missing cars as he speeds through crosswalks. He’s running to find his woman, to tell her how he truly feels before she boards her flight to Europe—likely never to return again. This is his last-ditch effort. His only chance to make things right.
This is when it finally dawns on me just how miserable I am. When I was with Roman, I was the happiest I’d ever been. I’ve been so wrapped in profit margins, the company’s public perception, sticking it to the little guy so I could get one step ahead that I haven’t realized just how drained and bitter I’ve made my soul.
Roman made me feel free. Roman made me feel safe.
It’s true that he lied, but I can see now that his intentions were never cruel.
It was for petty reasons, things he had no control over. I perceived his kindness as weakness. I saw Uncle Charles’ preferential treatment as a threat. Now I realize that Roman’s braver and stronger than I ever gave him credit for. His very presence used to bother me.
Now his absence bothers me even more.
With a heavy sigh, I reach for the remote and turn the TV off. I don’t need to see how the movie ends, because I know they’re going to get their happily ever after. The thought of seeing the protagonists together, all happy and carefree, makes me anxious to no end.
Things between Roman and I are screwed up. I pushed him away. I shoved him as hard as I could. Told him never to speak to me again. I don’t know if there’s any amount of grandiose speeches and swelling orchestral music that can fix things for me.
One thing’s for sure: I can’t sit around and mope anymore.
I want to be with Roman. I want to wake up and see his face first thing everyday. I want him to hold me like he’s never going to let go. I want to tell him I’m in love with him, and we’ll work things out even if it’s going to be difficult. I’ve kept my heart closed off, hidden away in an invisible box. Who knew a serious conk to the head would unlock it?
“Come on, Charlie,” I mumble. “If you want something, you have to go get it.”
I pull myself up off of the couch and take a deep breath.
~
Phoenix House is a lot smaller than I expected. Then again, I didn’t spend very much time imagining what a temporary youth housing shelter looked like, so it’s a surprise all the same. What concerns me the most is it’s located in a particularly rough corner of Chicago. I personally don’t feel safe enough to stand out on the curb, so I have Tommy pull up to the side of the road and cut the engine while I take in my surroundings from the safety of the backseat.
There’s graffiti everywhere. Garbage litters the sidewalk. It’s definitely not what I’m used to. Haggard people in shabby clothes walk slowly, languidly. Some looking far more worse than others. It’s hard for me to believe Roman spends so much time here. It’s also heartwarming to know he’s helping kids find a safe place to stay. I can see why Phoenix House is as successful as it is. Where there’s a demand, there has to be a supply.
The difference between Roman and I is he doesn’t do this for the profit.
“Miss Pace?” Tommy calls from the driver’s seat. “Is this the place you were looking for? I don’t think we should sta
y parked in the area for too long. A few of these people keep giving the car sketchy looks.”
“I’ll only be a moment,” I reply. “Please keep the engine running.”
I open the door and step out on the curb. The faint scent of alcohol lingers in the air, along with the garbage that’s out waiting for collection. As I shut the car door behind me, a group of four or five young teenagers round the corner of Phoenix House. They’re all dressed up in ill-fitted raincoats, and the boots they have on seem older than they are. They’ve got worn down backpacks, full to the brim with schoolwork.
They must be on their way home.
I watch as the kids enter the front door of Phoenix House, and suddenly realize this is their home. I hop after them, raising a hand.
“Excuse me?” I say.
One of the kids, a boy no older than fourteen, turns and puffs his chest out. Suspicion is etched into his frown. “Whatchya want, lady?”
“Do you happen to know if … if Roman’s in?”
“You mean Mister Howard?”
I laugh softly. “Yes. Mister Howard. Is he in?”
The boy pouts. “Mister Howard says we’re not supposed to talk to strangers. Come on, guys. Let’s go inside.”
“Please,” I say quickly. “I’m a … I’m a friend of his. I really need to see him.”
“Duh, it’s called a phone. Just text him.”
A feeling not unlike a punch to the gut winds me. “I … I don’t have his number.”
There hadn’t been much point in having it before. He was the enemy back then, my opponent. Any and all communication between us either happened at family dinners—which subsequently came to a screeching halt after Uncle Charles passed away—or through Maloney in an official legal capacity. Even when we were on the island together, there was no need to call Roman because he was always at my side or within earshot.
“You don’t have his number? What kind of friend are you then?” the boy questions suspiciously.
“Kids,” a man’s voice sounds from behind them. There’s a man standing at the front door of Phoenix House, but I don’t recognize him. He’s maybe twenty years younger than Roman, with a messy mop of curls and thick brows. “Come inside before you catch a cold. Dinner’s almost ready.”
“This lady’s trying to find Mister Howard,” the boy says to him.
The man regards me with kind eyes. “Hi, I’m Matteo. You must be Charlie.”
I blink in surprise. “You’re Matteo? Roman’s told me about you.”
Matteo grins. “All good things, I hope.”
“How did you know who I am?”
“Roman’s told me about you too.”
I swallow, biting my bottom lip. “Probably not all good things.”
“Nothing but the best, actually. He thinks very highly of you.”
My stomach twists so painfully that I’m worried I’ll throw up right here on the sidewalk. “He does?”
Matteo nods. “He talks about you all the time.”
“Where is he? Is he here? Can I see him?’
“I’m afraid he’s stepped out for the time being. I’m actually pretty sure he was on his way to see you.”
“Me?” I ask, incredulous. “Really?”
“Yeah. He called an Uber to take him to the Bliss Media head offi–”
Matteo isn’t even finished speaking before I’m booking it back to the car. I hop back in and shout at Tommy, “Back to the office!”
Without a second’s hesitation, Tommy signals, merges into traffic, and peels away from the curb with an alarming amount of speed and fluidity. I make a mental note to myself that I should give Tommy a raise for being so efficient.
I wring my fingers together and pick at my nails.
I really hope I haven’t missed Roman. What if he gets there, realizes that I’m not, and decides not to see me? What if Molly or Maloney or someone else who recognizes Roman has him taken away, thrown out of the building?
“Tommy?”
“Yes, Miss Pace?”
“I know it’s the middle of rush hour, but if you can get me there in under ten minutes, I’ll make it worth your while.”
Tommy nods at me in the reflection of his rearview mirror. “Fasten your seatbelt, Miss Pace. I’ll get you where you need to be.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Roman
Molly reminds me a of a very loyal, very aggressive Cocker Spaniel—like the one from Lady and the Tramp. She’s a feisty redhead who won’t let me into her home.
“I’ve told you,” she stresses again, “Miss Pace isn’t in.”
“I find that very hard to believe,” I reply curtly. “Charlie loves her work. She’d never take a day off on purpose.”
“I’m telling you the truth. I just got back from my own vacation. I haven’t heard a word from her since I left.”
“Where could she be then?”
Molly crinkles her nose at me. “Why on earth would I tell you that? I knew I should have convinced her to sign that restraining order.”
I swallow hard at the hard lump in my throat. “Restraining order? You mean she–”
“It’s Maloney’s idea. I quite frankly agree with him. I knew you’d turn up sooner or later.”
“I’m not going to hurt Charlie. I just want the chance to talk to her. Can you get her on the phone for me, at least?”
“Like hell. Get out of here, Mister Howard, or I’ll be forced to call security and have you escorted off the premises.”
I clench my fists tight and set my jaw. “I’m not going anywhere until I see Charlie.”
“Mister Howard–”
“Look,” I hiss. “I don’t care what you have to say, or that you want me to leave. I need to speak with Charlie in person, and I’m not leaving until I do. If you throw me out, I’ll come back. I’m in love with that woman, and I’m not going anywhere until I tell her to her face. Are we clear?”
Molly presses her lips into a thin line. I see her hand slowly move up and slip into her blazer pocket, likely to pull out her phone to call 911. She can call the cops for all I care. All that matters is that I get to Charlie and I tell her how I really feel, and I lay everything out on the line. She's all that matters. And if she doesn't forgive me, I'll understand. But I can't leave today not laying the truth bear.
“Mister Howard–” Molly cuts herself short, taking a glance over my shoulder at someone approaching.
The hard clicking of stiletto heels against unpolished tile floors echoes in my ear. I turn ever so slowly to see the silhouette of someone familiar. I hold my breath. It's her.
“What's going on here?” asks Charlie.
I’m not sure what to do. I want to fall onto my knees and beg for her forgiveness. But we're in a public place, and I know Charlie wouldn't appreciate my making a scene.
Molly steps out from behind me and rushes over to her. “I’m so sorry, Miss Pace. I was just telling him to leave.”
I’m at a loss for words. Everything that I planned on telling Charlie suddenly vacates out of my head, nothing but a blank space inside my skull. Anger, primarily at myself, rises from my stomach and into my chest.
I need to tell her.
Don’t be a coward.
“Charlie, can we talk?”
I’m fully expecting Charlie to say no. I'm prepared for her to start screaming, but it never comes. For some reason, seeing her so calm is more disturbing than seeing her upset. I wait with bated breath, hoping to God that she’ll put me out of my misery with a swift answer. If she says no, I’ll respect her wishes. At least I tried. But if she says yes? If she says yes, I’ve only got one shot to make this right.
Then and only then, do I realize that Charlie’s cheeks are dusted a faint shade of pink. She looks at me like she has something on her mind, something very important to say but can't quite get it out. I’ve never known her to be tongue-tied. It piques my curiosity to see her so unsure. I really have no way of telling what's going on inside her head.
&n
bsp; “Come with me to my office,” she says.
“R-right. Uh, okay.”
Molly is about to open her mouth to protest, but Charlie walks straight past her. I follow at a safe distance of three feet behind her, just in case she decides she wants to take out her aggression on me. Charlie’s never gotten her hands dirty, never needed to. There’s always been somebody to do her work for her, someone for her to micromanage and command. If she wants me thrown out onto the curb, I’m fairly certain all Charlie has to do is give the word and I'm gone. There is no denying there is a beauty in her silent rage; I just wish it wasn't directed at me.
The elevator ride to the top floor takes an eternity.
Not a single word is exchanged between us. People get on the elevator, people get off. All of them seem just as uneasy as I am to be standing next to Charlie, who is so uncharacteristically quiet that it's frightening. I don’t even realize I’ve been holding my breath until the elevator doors slide open and the burn in my lungs is too much to handle anymore. Charlie leads, taking me directly to her corner office.
I’ve never been here before. In all the years Charlie has been working for Bliss Media, I have never stepped foot inside her office. I’ve never been allowed to. Her office is probably quadruple the size of my little storage box back at Phoenix House. Spacious. Like something you would see out of an interior decorating magazine. Everything’s shiny and polished and new, and it’s so Charlie.
Charlie holds the door open for me, and I enter the office. She shuts it closed, and suddenly it's just the two of us. Not even a second has passed before I’m standing in front of her and taking her hands. She doesn’t move away. She doesn’t scream; she doesn’t do anything. This sustained level of calm is starting to get very, very creepy. I decide the only thing I can do is speak my piece.
“Charlie, I know you’re pissed. I can’t even begin to describe how sorry I am that I lied to you. I swear to God, I didn’t mean for things to get that far. I went to the Cayman Islands because I wanted to talk to you about the inheritance, make you reconsider. I wasn’t there to trap you. I wasn’t there to hurt you. But then that pipe fell on your head, and I didn’t know what to do. I saw you in the hospital all alone, and it honestly broke my heart. All I wanted was to stay by your side and make sure that you recovered. But you lost your memories. You forgot all about me, who you were, our past, our childhood, your work— everything. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t just leave you.
Forgotten Inheritance (Inherit Love Book 6) Page 14