Chapter 9
COLT
The blare of a car horn ripped me from sleep. I sat bolt upright in bed, my heart beating too fast, like I’d been running full speed for ten miles. My skin was slick with sweat. My chest heaved as I tried to remember how to breathe, how to pull air into lungs that felt like they’d been crushed.
The dream. Again.
Screeching tires. The sickening crunch of metal.
“Fuck,” I groaned.
I realized I didn’t actually hear a horn. My penthouse was well above the busy Manhattan streets. It was just the vivid dreams.
Would they ever stop?
I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, willing the images to fade.
But they never really did. They just retreated to the edges of my mind, waiting for the next time I let my guard down.
I had considered sleeping meds. Actually, I did try them a long time ago, but they made the nightmares worse.
The sleeping pills kept me locked in the dream.
They made it impossible for me to wake up and escape.
So, no more pills.
Alcohol helped, but that was hard to recover from. I wasn’t getting any younger and I didn’t want to pickle my liver and brain.
My phone showed 5:47 AM. Too early to be awake, but too late to try falling back asleep. Not that I wanted to. Sleep meant dreams, and dreams meant reliving the worst night of my life over and over again.
I threw off the covers and stumbled to the bathroom, turning the shower as hot as it would go. The scalding water helped ground me, burning away the lingering panic until I could think clearly again. Or at least clearly enough to function.
I skipped breakfast. My stomach was still twisted in knots. I dressed quickly in one of my usual suits. Armani. Navy. The armor of a man who had his shit together, even when he absolutely didn’t.
The office was empty when I arrived just before seven, which was exactly what I needed. Silence. Space. Distraction.
I heard footsteps. I didn’t have to guess who it was.
“You’re here early,” Frankie said. She stepped into my office, closing the door behind her.
I didn’t look up from my screen. “So are you.”
“I always am. You aren’t. I saw your car in the garage.” She moved into my line of vision, forcing me to acknowledge her. “Colt. Look at me.”
I did. My little sister stood there in a burgundy pantsuit that made her look every bit the executive she was, her dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, her eyes filled with concern.
She knew. Of course she knew.
“Are the dreams back?” she asked quietly.
I considered lying. Considered brushing it off with some joke about eating too much pizza before bed. But this was Frankie. She’d see through it in a heartbeat.
I nodded.
“For how long?”
I shrugged, returning my attention to the spreadsheet. “A couple weeks.”
“Since Hallie?”
“I suppose so, although I doubt there’s any connection.” I forced myself to stay relaxed, casual, like we were discussing the weather.
“Bull shit.”
I looked up. Frankie rarely cursed, which meant she was genuinely pissed.
“You’re being hardheaded,” she continued, crossing her arms. “Of course they’re connected. You’ve been plowing your way through New York for what, a decade now? Burying your past in whatever cleavage is within reach?”
“I don’t like when you talk about my personal life, Frankie—”
“Let me finish.” She paced around my office, brows furrowed in thought.
“You’ve spent ten years numbing yourself with meaningless hookups.
And now you’ve been forced to stop. You can’t fuck yourself into oblivion every night because you’re supposed to be a reformed man who’s madly in love with his fiancée. So what happens? The dreams come back.”
I leaned back in my chair, jaw tight. “You’re oversimplifying.”
“Am I?” She tilted her head, studying me with that penetrating gaze that always made me feel like she could see straight through to my bones. “You’re looking down the barrel of marriage, Colt. Just like last time. Your subconscious is freaking out.”
“It’s fake,” I said through gritted teeth. “There’s nothing to freak out about.”
“Tell that to your nightmares.”
I stood abruptly, needing to move. I had to pace, too, to do something other than sit there while my sister psychoanalyzed me. She had missed her calling. Therapist was more her lane. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Make time.”
“Frankie, I’m serious. I have back-to-back meetings today, and tomorrow we’re announcing the engagement before heading to Shelter Island. I need to focus on work, not on dreams that don’t mean anything.”
“They mean everything!” Her voice rose, frustration bleeding through. “The love of your life was killed in a tragic accident when you were practically a kid, and it still haunts you. You need to deal with it, Colt. Actually deal with it, not just bury it deeper.”
The words hung in the air between us. If she slapped me, it would have been less painful.
Lauren.
God, I didn’t want to think about Lauren right now. Didn’t want to remember the way she’d smiled at me that last night, the way she’d kissed me goodbye and the way she had promised to see me tomorrow.
Tomorrow never came.
I turned away from my sister. I didn’t want her staring at me and seeing everything I was trying to hide. I liked keeping my mask in place. I hated people knowing what was going on in my head. It was why I kept it all bottled up. It was easier to bury it than to think about it.
“Maybe you should talk to someone,” Frankie said, her voice gentle. “A therapist. Someone who can help you work through things.”
I laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You talk my ear off enough, Frankie. I don’t need a fucking therapist to do the same thing.”
I turned back around to look at her, my mask back in my place.
She glared at me, but there was no real heat in it. “Don’t be an ass.”
“I’m not being an ass. I’m being realistic.
” I moved to the window, staring out at the city below.
“I don’t have time to sit on a couch and talk about my feelings.
I have a company to run. A reputation to rebuild.
A fake wedding to plan. I don’t want to talk about my feelings and all that bullshit. It’ll just stir up more shit.”
“It’s supposed to,” she said. “It stirs it up so you can work it out. You talk about it and it gets out. Then you can move on.”
“Not today.”
“You need to grow up, Colt.”
The words were far more insulting than they should have been. I turned to face her, anger flaring hot and fast. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Frankie put her hands on her hips and attempted to go toe to toe with me but she was about five inches shorter than I was.
“You’re thirty years old, and you’re still running from what happened to Lauren.
You think sleeping with half of Manhattan makes you some kind of player, some untouchable bachelor.
But you know what I see? A scared little boy who’s afraid to feel anything real. ”
“Get out.”
“No.”
“Frankie—”
“I’m not leaving until you hear me.” She moved closer, her voice firm but not unkind. “I love you. You’re my brother, and I would do anything for you. But watching you destroy yourself for the past decade has been torture. And now you’re dragging Hallie into it.”
“Hallie is being paid very well for her time,” I said coldly. “She knew what she was signing up for.”
“Did she? Did she know she’d be playing fiancée to a man who wakes up screaming in the middle of the night?”
I flinched. I couldn’t help it.
Frankie’s expression softened. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m trying to help you. Please, just consider talking to someone. A professional. Someone who can give you tools to deal with this.”
“I don’t need tools. I need this conversation to be over.” I returned to my desk. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine. The dreams will pass. They always do.”
“Until they don’t.”
I ignored that, pulling up another spreadsheet. “We’re announcing the engagement tomorrow at the dock before boarding the yacht. I need you there for PR. Make sure the photographers get good angles, that the messaging is on point. This farce needs to look legitimate.”
Frankie sighed, recognizing a brick wall when she saw one. “Fine. I’ll be there.”
“Thank you.”
“But Colt?” She waited until I looked at her. “This Hallie thing? It’s not going to fix what’s broken inside you. You know that, right?”
I didn’t answer. What was I supposed to say? That I knew I was playing with fire? That some part of me recognized I was making a mistake by dragging Hallie into my mess?
That every time I looked at her, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years—and it scared the shit out of me?
“She’s my flavor of the week,” I said instead, forcing a casual tone. “That’s all. Something interesting to keep me occupied while we clean up my reputation.”
“Your flavor of the week.” Frankie’s voice was flat, disbelieving.
“Yeah. She’s intriguing, I’ll give her that. Doesn’t throw herself at me like other women. Keeps me on my toes.” I shrugged. “It’s refreshing.”
“Right.”
“We’re sailing to Shelter Island tomorrow afternoon,” I continued, deliberately changing the subject. “Three days. You’re coming with us. I need you to help manage the optics, make sure Hallie knows what’s expected of her.”
Frankie rolled her eyes. “You mean babysit your escort while you play at being a reformed man?”
“Keep your voice down.”
She stared at me. I could see the wheels spinning behind her eyes. My sister was too smart for her own good sometimes. She could read me better than anyone, knew when I was full of shit, knew when I was one step away from falling apart.
“Fine,” she said finally. “I’ll come. But be careful with her. With Hallie.” Her voice was serious now, all business. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but that girl doesn’t deserve to get hurt because you can’t get your head straight.”
Pain twisted in my chest and I pushed it down. “I’m not going to hurt her. It’s a business arrangement. She’s banking on this deal.”
“Money doesn’t make emotional damage disappear.”
“And yet you keep suggesting I go to therapy.” I waved dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. There won’t be any emotional damage. Because there won’t be any emotions. It’s fake, Frankie. All of it.”
“If you say so.”
She left, closing the door quietly behind her. I stared at the spot where she’d been standing, her words echoing in my mind.
I pulled out my phone and sent Hallie a text with details for tomorrow’s announcement. Time. Location. Dress code. All business, nothing personal.
She responded within minutes. Got it. See you tomorrow.
Short. Professional. Perfect.
I told myself that’s all this was. All it would ever be.