Chapter 13
I t’s the day after Christmas, and I’m supposed to be reviewing year-end financial reports, but I can’t focus. My thoughts kept drifting to Fallon and her message thanking me for the Christmas tree and gifts.
When Cabrina confirmed the delivery to my penthouse two days before Christmas, I anxiously paced my dad’s office, waiting for Fallon to text me. There was no guarantee she would, but I couldn’t help wondering what she thought of everything.
Until now, I’ve resisted the urge to check the security cameras. It’s become harder by the day to ignore the pull to see Fallon’s face. Ten days without giving in, and suddenly my restraint is ready to fold like a tower of cards all because of a silly thank-you text.
Checking on her is harmless, right?
She won’t even know I did it if I don’t tell her.
Against my better judgment, I open the security app for my apartment on my personal computer and pull up the feed to the living room first. I frown when I notice the Christmas tree and decorations are gone. There’s no way she’d discard them that fast. Would she?
I check my office next. I made it clear it was off-limits. But I have a sneaking suspicion she might not have listened. When the live feed loads, nothing seems out of place—my desk is undisturbed, and the chair is exactly where I left it. But when I zoom in on the hockey wall, I spot a glint of something shiny that definitely wasn’t there before.
I squint, rubbing the back of my neck. “What the hell is that?”
One of the hockey sticks I have on display is now covered with bright blue and pink rhinestones.
Fallon.
My hunch is confirmed as I scroll through the alerts and find movement recorded a few days ago. I click on the timestamp and watch her peek inside, her gaze scanning the room before landing on my hockey gear. She tiptoes closer to get a better look.
A sense of unease settles in my stomach when she stops in front of my jersey, staring at it as though she’s seen a ghost. Her shoulders fall forward, and the light in her expression dims, replaced with a haunted sadness. Which leads to me remembering the last time I saw her and that jersey together in the same room, a moment I’ve tried to bury deep in my psyche.
I wake up to the faint scent of vanilla and oranges.
The first rays of sunlight filter through the window, signaling that morning has arrived.
Elizabeth and I are entangled in a mess of limbs—she’s draped across my chest, her legs intertwined with mine, and her head nestled in the crook of my neck.
Last night, we curled up in bed with a bucket of popcorn mixed with Sour Patch Kids and ice-cold Diet Coke to watch A Nightmare on Elm Street .
She has a love-hate relationship with horror movies—loving the adrenaline rush but curses at every jump scare. Which explains why she sleeps with the bathroom light on.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I ignore it at first, but when it keeps going, a sense of unease settles in.
I disentangle myself from Elizabeth, easing her arm from my hip so I can get up. I pause when she stirs, letting out a soft moan, but within seconds, her breathing evens out.
Once I’m out of bed, I grab my phone and go into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me.
“Hello?” I whisper.
“Harrison.” Mom’s strained voice comes through the line. “Thank god you answered.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Your dad had a heart attack. He was getting out of bed to get ready for work when he grabbed his chest and collapsed.” Her voice trembles as she struggles to get the words out. “It’s not good. We’re at Regional Mountain Hospital, and they were pumping on his chest the whole way here and…I’m scared, Harrison.”
The room spins, and I’m gasping for air. My dad has always been a pillar of strength, someone I believed was untouchable. He taught me how to ride a bike and made it to every sports event I had growing up. Every Friday night, he brought home pizza to celebrate the end of the week with me and my siblings.
“Your father has been pushing himself too hard lately, working around the clock. I should have done more to make him slow down.”
My mother crying has me moving at lightning speed.
I toss my toothbrush, toothpaste, and comb into the toiletry bag I had stored on the shelf under the sink. “Since when has Dad ever listened? You did everything you could, so there’s no point in blaming yourself.” I pause, grabbing my shampoo and conditioner from the shower, and toss those in too. “Listen, I’m leaving my hotel now to head to the airport.”
“Okay.” She sniffles. “Cash booked you a charter flight. It should be waiting for you when you get there. Please hurry, Harrison. In case your father doesn’t…”
“It’s going to be okay, Mom. I’ll be there soon,” I promise. “Where is everyone else?”
“Presley is pacing the hallway, and Cash is on the phone with Dylan.”
“Okay, I’m going to hang up so I can finish packing. If you need anything else, call me back.”
“I will, love you, Harrison,” she says.
“Love you too, Mom.”
Elizabeth is still sleeping soundly, and as much as I want to wake her up, I can’t. Right now, my focus is on Dad.
I throw on a pair of pants and a T-shirt, and toss my toiletry bag and the clothes I wore last night into my duffle. My hand lingers over my jersey tossed on a nearby chair. Elizabeth wore it while we had dinner last night, but the second we were finished, she slipped it off, along with her shorts. With a crook of her finger, she led me to the bed, where I spent the rest of the night ravishing her body.
I put the jersey in my bag, and once I’m packed, I rush into the other room and grab a pen and the hotel stationery, scribbling down a note.
Good morning, beautiful,
My dad was hospitalized, so I have to go home to be with my family. Please don’t be mad at me for not waking you up. You looked far too peaceful to disturb. This weekend was perfect, and I want to see you again…and soon. Order room service when you wake up and call me while you’re waiting for your food.
Yours,
Mr. Hotshot
I scribble my number at the bottom of the note before leaving it on the nightstand and lean down to kiss Elizabeth on the forehead.
God, she’s mesmerizing. It may sound like a cliché, but I’ve never met anyone who makes me feel so at peace. She’s the calm in the storm, quieting the chaotic noise in my mind. Regardless of the uncertainties in my life, if Elizabeth is willing to take a chance, I’d like to see where this goes between us. I’ll do whatever I can to make it work somehow, if she feels the same. I’d rather take the risk than be haunted by what could have been.
“See you soon, beautiful,” I whisper as I leave the room.
Fallon never called. I felt silly, staring at my phone, willing it to ring. She never shared her last name, so I couldn’t look her up. When I reached out to the catering company, they told me they couldn’t give out private information and that the waitstaff from the hockey event were only contracted for one night and were paid cash. After weeks of obsessing over what could have been, I finally had to face reality. She was never going to call.
Shortly after I’d come to terms with it, I stumbled across a photo on the Stormbreakers’ social media page. It showed several players posing with their families at a charity event. I was shocked when I recognized Fallon with her arm around Jeremy, one of the team’s left wings.
She played me for a fool.
Of all the people Fallon could have moved on with, she chose someone from my rival team? I shouldn’t have felt betrayed since we barely knew each other, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that what we had would have been far more than just a weekend if she’d given us a chance. It hurt more than I cared to admit that she hadn’t shared the same sentiment. I tried to ignore the resentment, but it kept twisting at what was left of my pride until I eventually gave in.
I pull myself from my thoughts, switching to the live feed in my kitchen, guessing Fallon is probably cooking breakfast. As I dial her number, I see her at the counter, kneading dough. A tablet is propped up in front of her, and when I zoom in, the screen flashes a title: Cold Case Chronicles: The Silent Killer. She has the podcast on speaker, the narrator recounting a baffling case of a silent killer who left no trace, haunting a small town for years. Her phone’s sharp ring makes her jump.
“Shit,” Fallon grumbles, yanking her hands from the dough and rushing to rinse them off.
She lets out an exasperated breath as the phone continues its shrill insistence. “I’m coming,” she shouts to an empty room.
After quickly drying her hands off on a paper towel and turning off the podcast, she retrieves her phone from the pocket of her apron.
“Hello,” she answers.
“Look at you branching out from horror movies,” I tease. “Have they revealed who the killer is yet?”
“No, not yet. The narrator always builds up the suspense before—” She stops short, glancing toward the camera in the corner. “Wait a minute… are you spying on me?”
“Spying? No. Watching? Maybe.” I lean back in my chair, propping my feet on the desk. “I’ve got to keep a lookout for trespassers who forgot boundaries, like ignoring instructions to stay out of my office.” Her jaw drops as she glares at me through the camera. “Now would be a great time for you to explain why my hockey stick looks like my niece decorated it in one of her craft classes,” I say, my tone heavy with accusation.
Fallon folds her arms, tapping her foot impatiently. “I warned you. If you hadn’t left your demon—”
Out of nowhere, a cat I’ve never seen before scurries past Fallon and leaps onto the counter, stepping in the dough Fallon was kneading earlier before casually plopping in the middle of it, unfazed by her gasp.
“Must you always make a mess when I’m in the middle of cooking?” she mutters before spinning around to face the camera. “This is all your fault.” She jabs a finger in my direction. “How could you think leaving me with your demon cat for ten days would be funny? It’s a low blow, even for you, since you had to know he was a menace. This isn’t a prank—it’s just plain cruel.”
I furrow my brow as I process her words. I’ve never had a pet, let alone a cat. They’re messy, unpredictable, and require constant care. I don’t have time for that. Which begs the question, how the hell did a strange cat end up in my penthouse apartment? Based on Fallon’s frantic response, it’s clear she doesn’t have the answer either. One thing I do know is that I’m certain it didn’t wander into my penthouse on its own.
“How bad could it possibly be?” I ask, feigning innocence. “He’s just a cat.”
It’s too entertaining watching Fallon get worked up over thinking the cat is mine to spoil it by revealing the truth. After all, I owe her a prank for bedazzling my hockey stick. Since she already thinks I left the thing behind as my own practical joke, I might as well go along with it and let her deal with the demon cat a little while longer.
She barks out a humorless laugh, fixing the camera with a sharp look. “Right. Just a cat. I must be overacting,” she replies, her voice sweet and laced with sarcasm. “Like when I had to give Cat a bath, and he scratched me like a feral beast. Or when he attacked my plants, simply because they were in his way.” She throws her hands in the air.
Seems like those plants are our shared nemesis.
“Wait. Back up. You named the thing Cat?” I cover my mouth with my hand, stifling a laugh.
I should probably be more concerned about the mess that’s waiting for me when I get back to my apartment, but I can’t help finding humor in how Fallon not only assumed the stray was mine but that she also went ahead and named it. She might be more rattled by this than any other prank I could have pulled, but I admit she has a heart of gold for taking care of what appears to be a psychotic cat.
She gives an exasperated sigh. “Why does everyone keep asking that? What was I supposed to call him? John Doe?”
“Who’s everyone?” I demand.
She better not have had another man in my apartment.
“Walter, the doorman.” She clarifies. “He was nice enough to help me carry up the bags from the pet store when I got everything Cat needed since someone conveniently left us with nothing,” she mutters at the end.
Had it been any other man who helped her, or if Walter were thirty years younger, we’d have an issue. The idea that I’m even jealous of the idea of her with someone else leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
“What makes you so sure it’s a boy?” I ask.
“He’s got the necessary parts,” she explains as she shoots him a glare. “Though, I could have lost an eye when I was checking. He has a habit of hissing and swatting at anything that gets too close.”
“Sounds like a real charmer,” I chuckle.
I should come clean and admit he isn’t mine, but I decide to hold off. Might as well let her think it was a practical joke for a little while longer. Serves her right for bedazzling my hockey stick.
“Thanks again for the Christmas tree and the gifts,” she says begrudgingly, almost like it’s painful to thank me for anything.
“If you liked the tree, why isn’t it in the living room anymore?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
“Still sticking to the story that you weren’t spying on me?” she teases. “Cat would’ve used the tree as his personal jungle gym, so I moved it to my room.”
“I see. And what about the other gifts?”
Fallon meets my gaze through the camera and smiles. “I appreciate you replacing the tuna.” She tugs her lower lip between her teeth as she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “And the pot… I’ve been looking for that one forever. It was very thoughtful.”
A dozen questions press at the back of my mind, but for once, I keep quiet. We’re getting along for once, and I’m not willing to risk this rare moment of peace.
“You’re welcome, I’m glad you—”
I pause when I notice Cat in the background swiping at an open bottle of Diet Coke on the counter. Before I can warn Fallon, he knocks the soda over, sending it crashing to the floor in a burst of fizz.
Fallon spins around, throwing her hands in the air when she sees the mess. “Cat, not again,” she exclaims. “Harrison, I have to go.” She hangs up and rushes toward the mess, wagging her finger at the cat.
I chuckle as I log out of the security system. I’ve just set my phone on the desk when my mom walks into my dad’s office, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. “You were up early this morning, so I figured you could use this,” she says, handing it to me.
She and Presley are obsessed with holiday creamers, so my coffee is never without one when I’m here.
My mom doesn’t budge, studying me with an unreadable expression. I should have expected she had an ulterior motive to bring me coffee. With everyone visiting for the holidays, she hasn’t had a chance to corner me, but it was only a matter of time.
I sit up in my chair, taking my legs off the desk. “Thanks for the coffee, Mom,” I say, giving her a skeptical glance.
“How’s Fallon? Did she have a nice Christmas? I hate thinking that she was all alone in your penthouse. Did her catering events go well?” She fires off questions, each one more frantic than the last. “That was her on the phone, right?”
I set my coffee on the desk and rub my temples. Of course, she was eavesdropping. That’s what I get for not closing the door.
“Yes, Mom, it was. How much did you hear?”
She shrugs. “Not much. Who’s Cat?”
Clearly, she heard more than she’d like to let on.
“A stray that somehow got into the penthouse.”
Mom covers her mouth with her hand to stifle a chuckle. “And Fallon named it Cat? I like her sense of humor.”
That makes two of us.
“That’s one way to look at it.”
“Are you keeping Cat?”
“No.”
Which is why I’ve decided to cut my trip short. I was supposed to stay in Aspen Grove until after the New Year, but I have to get back to the city and deal with this cat fiasco before Fallon decides to keep it as part of her personal vendetta.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to seeing Fallon. It’s been strange not seeing her every day after having shared my apartment with her for weeks. It must be the delicious food that I miss. My mom is a great cook, but Fallon has made it into an art. She has a gift of elevating gluten-free dishes, which are often mediocre, transforming them into flavorful masterpieces that leave me craving more, long after the meal is over.
“Do you mind if I go back to the city tonight?” I ask my mom. “I have some things to take care of that can’t wait until after the New Year.”
She nods with a wide smile. “It’s no trouble. Should I call to see if I can arrange the private jet here in a few hours?”
My eyes narrow, noting the sudden enthusiasm is a sharp contrast from when yesterday she begged me to extend my trip.
I clasp her hand in mine, making sure I have her full attention. “Mom, Fallon and I are never getting together.” It’s best to set expectations now rather than give her false hope later.
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffs with a dismissive laugh. “I’m only being supportive. Why are you so convinced I’m playing matchmaker?”
Because she has a track record a mile long.
“I should go check on the breakfast casserole I have in the oven,” she says, pausing at the door.
“Harrison, your father and I are incredibly proud of you. All we want is for you to be happy.”
She steps out, and I’m left alone, thinking about the one woman I shouldn’t want but can’t get out of my mind. The truth is the weekend Fallon and I spent together ten years ago was one of the best damn memories I’ve ever had, and my reasons for being resentful are fading, piece by piece.