Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Sawyer
Isee her before she sees me. I’m parked half a block down from Melissa and Colton’s place, staring at my phone like I’m doing something useful, when I spot her crossing the street.
I go completely still. For a second, I just sit here, watching through the windshield as she gets out.
The first thing that hits me is how tired she looks. Not just physically, though there’s that too.
Her shoulders slope in a way I’ve never seen before. Her movements are slower, as if whatever spark she usually carries around with her got buried under something she hasn’t figured out how to shake.
While she walks toward the building, her eyes lift straight to me. For one suspended second, we just look at each other across the street.
No traffic or noise between us. Just that impossible, awful moment where I can see the exact instant she realizes it’s me.
Her face doesn’t brighten. She doesn’t do anything except go still, and then she looks away. Turns back toward the building and keeps walking with no hesitation. No sign that she expects me to follow.
It hits like a punch to the gut because now I know exactly what that means. She thinks I don’t want her. She thinks after everything, I still came here without planning to fight for her.
I get out of the car without thinking and take two steps toward the sidewalk before I stop. Chasing her up the walk right now would be about me and soothing my own guilt. Fixing the look on her face. Stopping the sharp, sick feeling rising in my chest because I finally understand what I did to her.
That’s not what this is supposed to be.
I stand still long enough to watch the front door close behind her, and then I drag a hand over my mouth and exhale slowly.
Now I know two things. First, I was already going after her. Second, I’m even later than I thought.
I get back in the car and sit there, gripping the steering wheel for a second, staring at the building.
She looked like she hadn’t slept. I could feel the weight she’d been carrying around. And the worst part is, I know I did that.
I pushed her away. I made her feel like she was the worst person in the world. Worse than the man who had physically and emotionally hurt me.
I start the car and pull away from the curb before I get sick.
* * *
The hospital lobby smells exactly like every hospital lobby in New York—clean, over air-conditioned, and faintly like coffee that’s been sitting out too long.
I don’t belong here in the middle of a weekday afternoon.
The woman at the desk notices me immediately. Of course she does.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here for Melissa Rivers.”
She types something into the computer. “You’ll need to wait.”
I nod once and step off to the side.
Waiting is not one of my strengths. Especially not today, when every second I stand here, I keep seeing Kayla’s face through that windshield.
How quickly she looked away. How final it felt.
I rub the back of my neck and stare through the glass doors toward the parking lot.
The impulse to turn around and drive back to Melissa’s punches at me hard enough to be annoying, but I force myself to stay still.
Because if I’m going to do this right, then I’ll need help. Someone who can make sure Kayla shows up somewhere without suspecting anything. And there’s exactly one person in this city who’ll do it while also glaring at me the entire time.
“Wow,” Melissa says dryly from beside me. “You look terrible.”
I turn. She’s standing there in navy scrubs, badge clipped to her waistband, expression unimpressed.
“That’s rude.”
“It’s accurate.” She crosses her arms. “What are you doing here?”
I don’t waste time. “I need your help.”
That gets her attention.
Her brows lift slightly, but she doesn’t let me off easy. “That sounds suspicious.”
“It’s not.”
“That’s how suspicious people answer that question.”
I exhale slowly. “Melissa.”
She studies my face for a second longer, then nods toward the hallway. “Walk with me.”
We head past the elevators, out of the main flow of people. She pushes open a side door that leads to a little staff corridor with vending machines and a row of chairs against the wall.
She turns to face me fully. “All right, start talking.”
“I need you to get Kayla somewhere for me.”
Her expression changes instantly. “You talked to her?”
“No.”
“Good start,” she says flatly.
“I’m fixing it.”
Her mouth twitches, like she’s deciding whether or not to believe that. “How?”
“I’m not telling you yet.”
She laughs once. “You drove all the way here to ask for help, and you’re giving me mystery billionaire bullshit?”
“It has to be a surprise.”
Melissa narrows her eyes. “For who?”
“Kayla.”
“No kidding.”
I resist the urge to pace, barely. “I just need you to make sure she gets to a certain place at a certain time.”
“And if I say no?”
I look at her. “Then I’ll stand outside your house until you reconsider.”
She actually smiles at that. Small but real. “That sounds annoying enough to be true.”
Melissa folds her arms tighter and studies me in silence while I wait. Whatever she sees seems to satisfy her because after a few seconds, her expression eases just enough to stop looking actively hostile.
“She hasn’t been herself.”
I nod once. “I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do,” she says quietly. “She’s trying very hard to act like she’s okay.”
Something cold and ugly twists low in my chest.
Melissa watches my face for a beat before she sighs. “All right.”
I blink once. “All right?”
“I’ll help,” she says, then points a finger at me. “But if this turns into something stupid, I’ll ruin your life. She may have made a mistake, but she’s a good person.”
“That seems dramatic.”
“It’s not.”
I almost smile. “It won’t be stupid.”
“That’s exactly what I’m worried about.”
I pull out my phone. “I’ll text you the place, the date, and the time.”
Melissa nods. “You’d better not be showing up with some bullshit flowers from the hospital gift shop and an expectation for her to do all of the apologizing.”
“I’m offended you think so little of me.”
“I know you,” she says.
That’s fair. I’ve done nothing in my life to make her think I have a single romantic bone in my body.
I tuck my phone back into my pocket. “Thank you.”
She shrugs one shoulder. “Don’t thank me yet.” She pauses. “And, Sawyer?”
“Yeah?”
Her expression softens just a fraction. “She is still crazy in love with you.”
Melissa doesn’t wait for a response. She turns and starts walking back toward the main hallway, already done with the conversation.
I stand there for a second longer before I turn and head for the exit.
Because there’s one more thing I need to do.
And that part is going to require every advantage I have.
* * *
The call takes twenty-three minutes. Eight of those are spent getting transferred between people who apparently think no is a useful answer.
It’s not.
By the time I get the right person on the line, I’m back in my car, parked in a loading zone I’m definitely not allowed to use.
“I understand your concern,” I say, voice level. “But I’m not asking for a marketing opinion.”
“With respect, sir, we can’t just reverse a withdrawal without the author’s approval.”
I stare straight ahead through the windshield at traffic, cabs, and a cyclist weaving between lanes like he has a death wish.
“That’s unfortunate.”
Then the cautious voice comes back. “She was very clear.”
“I’m sure she was.”
I loosen my tie slightly because this is the point where power helps.
And for once, I don’t mind using it.
“I’m prepared to fund the initial print run myself.”
The woman on the other end clears her throat. “That’s … generous.”
“It’s practical.”
I glance at the passenger seat, where Kayla’s book sits face down beside my phone.
“What I need from you is simple. Print the book. Use the final draft she submitted. Put it on shelves by Friday.”
“That timeline is nearly impossible.”
“Nearly.”
She exhales. “There would need to be additional costs.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
She pauses. “I’d also need legal assurance that the author won’t hold us liable.”
“She won’t.”
“You can’t know that.”
I think of Kayla walking into Melissa’s building without looking back, and for the first time all day, my voice softens.
“Trust me,” I say quietly. “She’d never ask for this. That’s why I am.”
The line goes quiet, and then the woman says carefully, “If this goes forward, the books can be delivered to the venue directly.”
“Good.”
I pull a pen from the console and jot the details onto the back of an envelope.
Venue. Time. Friday. Everything locking into place.
“Then make it happen.”
When I finally end the call, I sit back in the seat and stare at nothing for a long second.
The city moves around me, but beneath all the noise, one thought sits sharp and certain in my chest.
She thinks I want nothing to do with her.
That ends now.
* * *
The bookstore is bigger than I expected. Not massive, but not small enough to feel safe either.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves line the walls, packed with hardcovers and paperbacks in neat, organized rows. A small stage sits near the back—just a raised platform with a podium and a few rows of chairs facing it.
Simple and intimate, exactly what I need.
“Mr. Maccini?”
I turn.
A woman in her forties with sharp glasses and a clipboard approaches, offering a polite but curious smile.
“Yes.”
“I’m Andrea. We spoke on the phone.”
“Right.”
Her eyes flick briefly to my suit, then back to my face, like she’s still trying to figure out how I fit into all of this.
“So,” she says, glancing down at her notes, “you’re requesting a private event … but open to the public?”
“Correct.”
“And you want it announced as a reading?”
“Yes.”
“Author appearance?”
“No.”
That gets a reaction.
Her brow lifts slightly. “You’re not the author?”
“No.”
She hesitates. “And the author won’t be present?”
“Not at the start.”
Something about my tone must tell her not to push further because she nods slowly. “All right.”