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by Gina Ardito

  An anguished cry ripped from her soul. “Oh, Bertie! What will I do without you?”

  The woman cleared her throat and dragged a heavy cushioned chair closer to the bedside. “I’ll give you some time.”

  She walked away, closing the door behind her as she left.

  God knew how long Cameron sat alone inside this barren room, weeping softly and recalling all the moments she’d shared with Bertie, good and bad. Had she told him she loved him the last time they’d spoken? She couldn’t remember.

  “I love you,” she said now. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” She repeated the same three words until her throat ached and a white-haired nurse arrived to escort her from the room.

  “We’ll take care of him now,” she murmured, patting Cam’s hand.

  Cameron struggled to get up out of the chair, her gaze never leaving her fallen hero.

  “Go on,” the nurse prompted. “I promise. He’s in good hands. He’s with the angels now.”

  A smile quirked Cam’s tight lips. Bertie, the atheist, would probably love to hear this news.

  “There now, see. I bet you hadn’t thought of that. Gives you some peace, don’t it?”

  More like a fit of the giggles, but she left the room nonetheless, and nearly tripped over Jordan hovering in the hallway.

  “Cam?”

  She didn’t have to say a word. Good thing, since she couldn’t say it aloud yet. Saying it aloud would confirm the finality in her heart, and she wasn’t ready.

  “Aw, Cam, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Blinded by tears, she stumbled toward the nearby waiting area and collapsed into the same hard plastic chair she’d sat in a lifetime ago—Bertie’s lifetime ago. Jordan rolled up beside her, took her icy hand in his warmer one, and squeezed gently. The floodgates on Cam’s emotions broke open, and she wept.

  “I was too late. I never even got to say goodbye. He was gone before I got here—before he got here. I didn’t have a chance to tell him how much I loved him, how much he meant to me. He died not knowing he was my hero.”

  “He knew, sweetheart. He always knew. Just like you’ve always known how much he loved you. You two had a special bond. That didn’t change when he died.”

  She looked up at him, noted the tenderness in his expression—not pity; he knew she couldn’t abide pity. Empathy and his own devastation at the news reflected in his steady gaze. Her lips parted of their own accord, and she leaned toward him, hungry for the connection they once shared. Hungry for life. He understood her need and met her halfway, his breath growing warmer near her cheek.

  Into this soft and touching moment, her stomach made itself known with a growl that would shame a grizzly.

  He jerked back. “When’s the last time you ate?”

  Cheeks flaming, she shook her head. “I don’t remember. Sometime yesterday.”

  He gave her hand another squeeze. “Well, you’re going to need lots of protein to keep up your strength for all that’s coming. I assume Larry’s waiting downstairs?” At her nod, he whipped out his phone. “Are all the extensions for the driving service still the same?” Another nod, and he scrolled with a finger.

  If she’d had full control of her senses, she would’ve asked why he continued to have the contact information for the foundation’s car service in his phone after all these years, but right now, the only thought in her mind was gratitude that someone else took care of the detritus of banal living while she stayed numb, cocooned in grief.

  “Larry, it’s Jordan Fawcett.” Pause. “Same here.” Another pause. “I’m afraid the news isn’t good, but it’s not my place to say. Ms. Delgado and I are on our way down. Take her home, bring her around the back. I’m not sure if the press has the news in their nostrils yet, but just in case, let’s not push her into a melee. I’ll follow you to her place and get her comfortable. If luck’s on our side, she can be safe upstairs before the news gets out. While I’m taking care of her, would you mind driving over to the Grille Room and picking up a takeout order for us? I’ll place the order now, so you’ll have some time before it’ll be ready.” Pause. “Terrific. Thanks.”

  The orders punctuated the dense fog in Cam’s head, but she couldn’t form a coherent thought on her own.

  While she sat lost in her mourning tomb, he placed a second call to the Grille Room. He never asked for her opinion before he ordered two porterhouse steaks, a side of asparagus spears, two baked potatoes topped with sour cream and chives, and for dessert, a slice of chocolate ganache cake. He did, however, throw a questioning glance her way before disconnecting, and she responded with an unenthusiastic thumbs-up. She wouldn’t change a thing he’d ordered. It was disconcerting to realize he knew all her food weaknesses—all her weaknesses, period.

  While she would’ve liked to argue with him, the truth was, her stomach could use a refill and the next few days were going to be hell. So, why not let him take care of her for a little while? What harm could it do?

  The devastating news hit her anew. Bertie was gone. And, despite Jordan’s current position beside her, eventually, he’d return to... wherever and whomever he had in his orbit. But her life had irrevocably changed. For the first time since that devastating night nearly thirty years ago when her dad died, she was alone again.

  “Let’s get you home, Cam.”

  SHE PASSED ON THE CHOCOLATE cake, which had always been her favorite dessert.

  “Try a bite,” he cajoled, waving a small portion of the treat speared on his fork.

  With a shake of her head, she refused his offer, then gestured at the dirty takeout dishes from their meal scattered across the tabletop. “Thanks for the dinner, but I think I need to be by myself for a while.”

  It didn’t take a brain surgeon to see she was fragile right now. At the same time, though, Jordan probably wasn’t high on the list of people she’d turn to for comfort and solace. Unfortunately, the man she most needed was the one who’d died. And Jordan knew without being told, he was a poor substitute for Bertie.

  “Will you be all right?” he asked. “Is there somebody I can call to stay with you?”

  She pushed away from the bistro table and got to her unsteady feet. A major yawn widened her mouth. “I just want a hot bath and some sleep.”

  He gave her a hard stare, and she clucked her tongue. “What? Don’t look at me like that. I’ll be okay. Honest. I’m broken but not beaten. I’ll survive.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He stared out the window at the Manhattan skyline, where darkness began to drop and lights clicked on in odd patterns in the other buildings. Clearing his facial expression of any obvious concern took some time—particularly since that last phrase was pure Bertie, and he wondered if she realized she used it.

  His gaze traveled back to her in time to see her hands twisting in front of her stomach. “Can I ask a favor though?”

  “Sure.”

  “Will you ride with me to the memorial service? I know it might not be comfortable for you, that there might be some bad blood between you and some of your former teammates, but...” Her voice cracked, and she looked at him through red-rimmed, wet eyes. “I can’t do this alone.”

  He nodded. “If you want me there, I’ll be there. No matter what anyone else says.” Not that his former teammates had any grudge against him anyway. They’d understood his reason for leaving. Everyone had—everyone but Cam.

  “No one will say anything. I’ll make sure of it. Well, except my mom.” She picked up a remote control from the glass-topped end table and pointed it at the window. On a low hum, horizontal shades slid downward, dimming the light in the living room and covering the view. “Her, I have no control over. She’s a damn tornado in an outhouse.”

  Another Bertie phrase. He had no idea if she was channeling the dead man or if Bertie’s spirit had refused to leave its earthly bonds and had taken up residence in Cam. To hell with masking his concern. She needed someone here with her tonight.

  “How about I spend the night?�
�� he said, keeping his tone light.

  Her eyes bugged out and a grimace twisted her lips. She toed off her shoes before replying on a huff of air, “Get real.”

  “On the couch,” he added. “You won’t even know I’m here.”

  He’d be up all night, since there was no way he could sleep anywhere but his own custom bed these days, but she didn’t need to know that. What she needed was to have a sounding board nearby, someone to watch over her, to be ready to catch her when she crumbled tonight. Because she would crumble.

  She bent to pick up her shoes, saying nothing, and he pressed his advantage. “Why don’t you go change and I’ll make coffee?”

  Taking a few steps toward the bedroom, she tossed over her shoulder, “Go home, Jordan. I’m fine. I don’t need a babysitter.”

  “Definitely not, but I don’t think Bertie would want you to be alone tonight, either.”

  On a quick whirl, she speared him with a gaze blazing arrows of anger. “Who made you an expert on what Bertie would want? When was the last time you talked to him? Five years ago?”

  “More like a few weeks ago, actually.”

  Her posture sagged, and the fire dimmed in her eyes. “Oh, right. You guys talked football, didn’t you?”

  “He talked football. I talked about you.”

  “Why?” The single syllable came out a harsh whisper, roughened by doubt and grief. Her voice trembled on the edge of tears, but she didn’t let them fall. She never did—not if anyone else was around. She’d grow brittle, but she never let a crack appear in her strong veneer.

  “Why did I talk about you?”

  She dropped her shoes with a thud. Tossing her head to shake out her hair, she fisted her hands at her sides. Jordan knew the signs and braced for impact. Here it comes. The breakdown.

  He might not have seen one from her in a few years, but he never forgot how they started—or how they usually ended—with the two of them snuggled in bed. Well, that part wasn’t about to happen. Not tonight. Not ever again. No way he’d let her get that close to him ever again.

  He would help her through the next few days, seal the deal on the Loughlin site, and then get the hell away from her before his heart could become engaged. Not for her. He wasn’t that philanthropic—or crazy. No, he’d do this for Bertie. For Susan. For Marcus. And for himself.

  “Yes. Why?” Eyes narrowed, she stalked closer, a panther spotting weak prey. “Why did you talk about me? And while you’re at it, tell me why you came back to New York. Why did you call me about that building? Why couldn’t you just leave me alone? Why didn’t you go away and stay away? Do you have any idea how seeing you like this makes me feel?”

  Seeing you like this. Wow. While he’d expected the attack, her method, accusing him of trying to stir some kind of pity out of her because he was in a chair, rankled.

  “Then don’t look at me. Or pretend I’m someone you never knew before I brought you that property. Forget we have any kind of history. You’re very good at forgetting about people.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  At her demand, reason returned. What the hell was he doing? He was supposed to be talking her down, not pushing her closer to the edge.

  “Nothing,” he muttered and ran a hand through his hair to calm his temper. “Go change. I can’t imagine you’re comfortable in that starchy linen suit combo. Try to find something soft and loose in that massive walk-in closet of yours. Meanwhile, I’ll make coffee, and maybe then, you’ll be up for a few bites of chocolate. The next few days are gonna suck. Take your kindnesses where you can for now. Time enough for fighting when we’ve gotten through all this.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” she grumbled, but the bite had already disappeared from her tone.

  He clutched his chest in mock outrage. “Me? Never.”

  A glimmer of a smile eased her features, defusing the tension in the room. “Ass.”

  “Where you’re concerned,” he replied, his timbre soft but solid as steel, “always.”

  She cocked her head, staring at him as if seeing him for the first time. Who knew? Maybe she was.

  He studied her back, noted the way she pulled at her fingers, spotted the moisture glistening in her eyes. Vulnerability peeked through her rough-and-tumble veneer, and he sighed. “When I’m sure you’ll be all right here on your own, I’ll leave. Whether that takes five minutes or five days. No ulterior motives. I’m a shoulder you can cry on or lean on. Don’t question it; just accept the offer for what it is. Okay?”

  “Okay,” she murmured. “Thanks.”

  After picking up her shoes, she wandered into the back of the apartment toward the bedroom. Once she was out of sight, he glanced up at the ceiling. He wondered if Bertie had received his halo yet. Dealing with Cam over the last thirty years, he’d earned it. Who would take care of her now? Not that she was some helpless waif—far from it. But he knew her challenges as well as he knew his own. Who would remind her how beautiful, how accomplished, how spectacular she was, when self-doubt crippled her?

  Despite the passage of time, he still knew every inch of this apartment. Rolling around her kitchen evoked memories of nights spent cooking pasta and drinking wine, mornings with omelets and orange juice, of birthday celebrations, holidays, and quiet rainy afternoons filled with laughter and passion. Where had they gone so wrong?

  By the time she returned, he had the coffeepot set up, mugs on the counter, and the bistro table cleared of everything but the single piece of cake and two forks.

  “Thanks.” Her tone was still stifled to whisper soft, as if too much emotion might escape should she loosen the release valve. “You were right. I didn’t realize how much I needed this.” She gestured to the old, heather gray Vanguard t-shirt and black cotton shorts she’d donned.

  He nodded. Maybe they could keep everything civil now. For both their sakes. “Coffee will be up in a few minutes. Take a seat.”

  While he grabbed two mugs from the stand on the counter, she returned to the bistro table. “Thanks, Jordan. I’m sorry I’ve been so—”

  The elevator dinged, and she whirled in surprise. The doors slid open, and Jordan’s hopes for a peaceful evening took a swan dive into a cement floor. Into the eye of the storm strode her mother, reanimating the anxiety in the air into frenzy.

  Cam shot to her feet, all trace of calm withered from her posture and expression. The face-off resembled a television sitcom. Six-foot-tall Cameron, barefoot and in her t-shirt and shorts, resembled some ancient Amazon compared to her rail-thin, diminutive mother in a navy suit and leather pumps, a sapphire and diamond necklace with a matching cuff bracelet glinting off the overhead lights.

  “How’d you get in here, Mother?”

  “Don’t blame Scott downstairs. He said he had to announce me, but once I told him about Bertie dying, he understood you needed me right now and agreed to send me right up.”

  “You told Scott? Why? The foundation planned to release a statement to the press tomorrow morning. Now, I guarantee you the press not only knows, but they’re going to be camped out in the lobby within the next fifteen minutes.”

  Her mother waved her left hand, and the setting sun caught the wedding set on her third finger, nearly blinding Jordan with its brilliance. Good Lord, it was a wonder she didn’t set the drapes on fire.

  “I can well imagine the press release you’re planning. All about Saint Albert Wallace and his holy hands and how no one can ever take his place.” She sniffed her disdain, a sound he remembered all too well.

  “God, you’re petty! You just can’t stand to let Bertie have the dignified end he deserved, can you? Somehow, you have to make yourself the star of this tragedy, all because he didn’t adore you enough when you were married. What’d you tell Scott anyway? How devastated you are? Did you describe in great detail the pain Bertie’s death causes you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She wagged a finger toward Cam’s nose, and Cam took a step back to avoid any potential contact.
“If you didn’t have rules in place that I’m not allowed up here without your permission, I wouldn’t need to tell anybody down there anything. But, noooo. You want to keep some modicum of power between us by erecting guardrails, as if I mean you harm. You treat me like I’m an axe murderer, for God’s sake.”

  She might as well be, in Jordan’s opinion. Like an axe murderer, Laurel wanted to cut her daughter down every chance she got, blow by careless blow. Cam tightened her lips, no doubt to control the words coming from her mouth. When she spoke again, she managed to keep her tone even and at a reasonable volume.

  “I live alone in a place where the elevator opens up into my living room. I don’t have a front door I can lock. My security is the guard downstairs. That means I take precautions. No one comes up without my being notified first. That’s just common sense and standard procedure for anyone who has a place like mine.”

  “Don’t blame me for your poor choices in life. You’re thirty-six years old. I haven’t been responsible for your marital status, where you live, or how you look for a long time.”

  Cam’s temper would no longer remain tethered. “Get out. Get out of my home, and don’t come back. I’m done with you.”

  Laurel stomped a spiked heel. “How dare you!”

  Whoa. Time to break this up. Jordan rolled forward into the fray. “Easy, Cam. You’re not thinking clearly right now—”

  “Stay out of this, Jordan. This is between me and her.” Cam’s eyes, blazing with fire, cut to him before returning to the target of her ire. “Bertie always insisted I give you the benefit of the doubt. With him gone, I no longer have to heed that advice. I don’t have to respect you because you’re my mother, especially when you’ve gone out of your way to disrespect me and all I’ve loved my whole life. I’m over it: the drama, the snide comments about my size and looks, and most of all, the insults about Bertie. He was the best thing that ever happened to us after Dad died, but you never appreciated him. The whole time he was alive, I put up with your crap and let you criticize every breath I took because I had his love to fall back on when you made me feel bad about myself. But he’s gone now. And any desire to continue fostering this toxic relationship between us died with him.”