Chapter Two
CADEN
The bustling cafeteria is alive with the clatter of trays and the hum of conversation.
As I wait in line, I inhale the tantalizing aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
The scent of baked goods hanging in the air, mingling with the lively chatter of staff, doctors, and visitors, is a welcome change from the donor appreciation event I spent the last thirty minutes trying to escape.
An event that stopped feeling authentic several years ago.
Not that I don’t appreciate the staff’s efforts to recognize my contributions, but if it weren’t for my mother’s stay at Haven Crest and the excellent care she received, the facility wouldn’t be on my radar. Especially now that it is run by Priscilla and Maxwell Remington.
The woman in front of me turns too quickly, and her tray hits my stomach before I can steady her.
“Whoa!” I say, but my warning comes too late.
The tray tilts in her grip, sending a cascade of cookies and fries onto the floor.
Her cell phone hits my shoe, vibrating with the alert of an incoming text message.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She apologizes, bending to gather the spilled food.
There is a note of frustration … or annoyance quivering in her voice, and for some reason it tugs at my sympathy. I frown at the unexpected emotion because it isn’t a feeling I experience often. People rarely deserve it.
Her face is hidden under a thick mop of curly chestnut hair, and I sense she prefers being hidden from the world. Today of all days, I know how she feels.
As I bend to help her pick up the scattered items, the world around us seems to blur.
The hustle of the cafeteria fades into the background, leaving just the two of us.
“No harm done,” I say, offering her the phone with a smile that I hope radiates warmth and sincerity, a stark contrast to the usual mask of controlled tolerance I wear.
Our fingers brush, and a tingling sensation prickles my skin.
It’s a platonic touch that shouldn’t send my blood racing, yet it holds the weight of possibility.
She takes a sharp breath, then clears her throat. “Thanks,” she replies, her voice a gentle caress that reaches into the spaces of my mind. “I should have paid more attention…” Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, she finally looks up and our gazes meet. “Caden…”
My name rolls past her lips…a whispered melody.
Seductive.
Arousing.
Sensual.
“Kamiyah,” I say, raising a brow as she jerks back. It’s a subtle reaction, but I notice.
Her wide eyes, a deep shade of velvety chestnut that matches her hair, are an endless well of mystery and kindness, framed by lashes that cast soft shadows on her cheeks.
For a brief instant, I feel connected to her in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
Perhaps it’s nothing more than the shared tragedy this place represents.
Yet, I find myself caught in the quiet storm of emotions swirling in her eyes.
There’s a hint of surprise, followed by a spark of curiosity…
I shake my head, and my smile gives way to my usual composed demeanor.
What do I know of the emotions lingering behind Kamiyah Remington’s eyes?
Nothing, I remind myself, ignoring my desire to twirl a lock of her curls around my finger just to feel if it’s as soft as I always imagined.
And I shove aside the urge to tuck her hair behind her ears so that no part of her heart-shaped face is obscured and to soothe the vulnerability I heard in her voice earlier.
For a fleeting moment we linger, words unspoken before I stand, taking her tray with me.
There was a time she intrigued me, and I thought we were kindred spirits, grieving together, but these last years she’s proven to be more like her aunt than her generous parents.
And when I recall no member of the Remington family showed up to the donor event, that nugget of information reinforces my suspicions that the speeches made during the event weren’t genuine.
“What are you doing here?”
I rock back on my heels to stare at her.
This is the most flustered I’ve seen her in ages.
Not that we’re friends. The opposite is true, but I’ve seen enough of her on magazine covers and in interviews to know she’s far from composed.
Again, my chest tightens at seeing her vulnerability so close to the surface, and I bury the tender affection.
I don’t know what it is about Kamiyah that ignites my protective instinct, but I know better than to act on it.
Except for her parents, her aunt and uncle have feuded with my family for as long as I can remember.
She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Sorry, that’s a shit question to ask. I didn’t mean to imply you’re not welcome. I’m surprised that’s all, and I didn’t think I would see you here again after … after your mom passed.”
The reminder of our shared grief tugs at my chest. Back then it didn’t matter that her aunt and uncle hated my family or tried over and over to ruin my family’s good name. Kamiyah and I had become friends.
Or at least I thought we were.
Turning away, I hand the tray to the cashier. “I’ll have a new order and a black coffee for myself.”
“You don’t have to. Besides, I bumped into you.
” Her phone chimes, slicing through the moment.
She glances at the screen, and whatever warmth had softened her features drains away in an instant.
Even her golden-brown complexion pales, like the message has reached inside her and flipped a switch I didn’t know existed.
Her fingers dance across the phone’s key pad and within seconds another text lights up her phone.
When her eyes lift to mine, irritation flashes—sharp, unguarded—before she snuffs it out beneath a cold, empty mask that doesn’t belong on Kamiyah’s face. “I have to go,” she says, already stepping back. But as she turns, her phone lights up again, and for a heartbeat I see the sender’s name.
Seeing the name and Kamiyah’s instinctual reaction to flee chills my blood.
“So that’s why you ditched the event?” My friend Ethan says, coming to stand beside me. “To meet up with Starlight’s golden girl?”
I grunt in mock irritation, turning away from the empty doorway Kamiyah fled from.
“Don’t you have a few hands to shake and checks to cash?
” Ethan is the facility’s fund development coordinator.
Although we lost touch for years after high school, we were friends long before my mother came under the care of Haven Crest. In fact, his knowledge of the inner workings of the organization was instrumental in helping me choose the facility during a time I didn’t trust the Remingtons.
I still don’t. However, I can’t dispute the magnificent care my mother received from the staff, nor the good my donations do for those who couldn’t afford the quality of care my mother did.
Ethan narrows his eyes at me, the corner of his mouth lifting in a knowing, almost accusing smirk. “Hey? Don’t tell me you’re falling for her again.”
I force a short laugh, the kind meant to sound certain. “Not a chance. I learned my lesson.” The words taste steadier than I feel, but Ethan seems satisfied enough; he lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for both of us.
My gaze drifts toward the doorway Kamiyah disappeared through, a faint echo of her hurried footsteps still ticking in my ears. “How’s her sister doing?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
Ethan scratches his jaw. “Rough week. She had a seizure a few days ago, but she’s stable.”
A hollow thud lands in my chest. Was that the reason Kamiyah looked like she was bracing for impact? Or was it the message she refused to mention?
“The episode definitely complicates the family’s plans,” Ethan adds.
I tilt my head, studying him. “What plans?”
“It’s all hush-hush,” he murmurs, lowering his voice, “but the Remingtons are getting ready to take the facility public or sell.” He shrugs. “Honestly, I’m surprised they waited this long.”
Public. The word hits like a cold draft.
Did she know what her family planned? Did she care?
Considering her sister is still touch and go, the Kamiyah I knew would want to stay at her sister’s bedside. Perhaps her concern for Anna is a front, because the last text I saw glowing on Kamiyah’s phone wasn’t about her concern for Anna’s health at all.
It was a summons.