Chapter 21 Healing and Growth
HEALING AND GROWTH
Archer
Archer Bellamy: Man of the Penthouse
Bank Account: Enough to live on and more if I never worked another day.
Heart: Still beating. Resting rate—72.
Cards and flowers crowded the coffee table—proof that nothing spread faster than news of a near-death experience.
I finally go around to opening them. Clients, employees, even my high-school calculus teacher had weighed in with neatly written well wishes: Lucky.
Strong. Take the time you need. Get better soon.
I thumbed through them on the couch, in gray sweats and a tee—my new uniform of late—and found a light-blue envelope from Caleb.
Get well. Rooting for you. — Caleb
Understated. But considering he really had been sick after Steele Valley instead of plotting to poach a client, I’d let it slide.
Next was a cream envelope with a doodled flower, in Maya’s handwriting.
I turned down Holden’s offer. You taught me a standard of excellence and believed in me from day one. I’m loyal to Bellamy Bros. and ready to help Matt keep things running while you recover. — Maya
I set it aside, a satisfied smile tugging at my mouth that she didn’t quit. Loyalty. A word that meant something in my world. Because of it, Maya would get her own team and whatever projects she wanted as a reward—later, when I was back in the saddle.
Loyalty was a good quality in employees, a noble one that I admired and expected… even from girlfriends. I leaned back, trying to squeeze Penny out of my head. I wasn’t ready to deal with her yet.
My new superpower was postponement—later had become my favorite word.
The world, my doctor, everyone around me had given me permission to rest, the A-okay to do nothing.
But the silence that came with recovery?
That proved brutal. Especially when silence came in the shape of a woman who wasn’t here, but ever present in my thoughts.
Two weeks since my heart attack, every quiet minute echoed our last conversation at the hospital.
She’d stood pale and terrified beside my bed, and I—idiot that I was—had used my last reserves of pride as armor.
I lobbied accusations, defensiveness, and all the crap at her from a man who hated being fragile in front of the woman he loved.
And I never said it back. Never said, I love you, too.
She’d told me she hid things to protect me. I had called it betrayal instead of what it was—care. Watching her leave that day hurt worse than the cardiac event itself. The monitors never captured that kind of pain.
Now, every breath replayed the sound of her voice: I didn’t want to see you break again.
She wasn’t wrong. I had let the ghost of Brianne get to me again and control how I treated the one woman who was nothing like her.
I owed Penny an apology—a real one.
I scrolled through our most recent text thread. She checked in on me every morning:
Penny: How’s your heart today?
Me: Structurally sound. Emotionally questionable.
Penny: Progress. Can I stop by and bring you anything?
Me: Not today.
She offered everyday to come see me, to be there for me.
I put her off and kept our connection to texts, avoiding the hard topics, circling each other in polite digital conversation.
She’d sent thoughtful deliveries instead, little things like a book of crosswords, a self-help book for type-A males, and nice slippers.
The fact she tried every single day, loyal and waiting for me to catch up, meant she hadn’t given up.
I just needed time to wrap my head around everything that had happened in my life.
It was hell to face my own mortality, an organ that almost failed me, much less to face a woman I was falling for who’d kept secrets from me.
Was I ready to see her yet? I pulled up the photo of us with all the Golden Retrievers around us. My thumb drifted over the smile I missed.
The Bellamy Brothers group chat lit up before I almost typed Come over. Let’s talk…
Tucker: How’s your ticker?
Me: Still ticking.
Tucker: Sending my hockey groin-rehab routine. Might work for hearts.
Brooks: Please don’t.
Tucker: Too late. Zip file incoming.
Me: Willing to try anything.
Tucker: Pelvic thrusts on ice are amazing. Whitney loves what they do for our sex life.
Me: No ice. No sex life.
Tucker: What happened to Penny?
Me: Small hiatus.
Brooks: Can we go back to discussing Arch’s recovery?
Good to know they cared—in their own warped way.
I sorted the deck of cards again, when a red-foiled envelope fell out. I opened it and read:
You’re invited to the wedding of Brier & Westley
Valentine’s Day · Las Vegas
Inside, a note appeared on the RSVP card:
Penny would love to have you there, as would I.
Brier
Typical Brier. Professional meddler with a heart of gold.
I snapped a picture of the invite and texted Penny.
Me: Guess what hit my mailbox.
Penny: A wedding invite?
Me: Yep.
Penny: I’m helping her plan it. The house looks like a craft store exploded. She’s bedazzling her gown and making diamond art favors.
Me: I’d help, but I’m two left hands with that stuff.
Penny: Stick to naps and vegetables. Doctor’s orders.
Me: Congratulate her for me.
Penny: I will. She’s speaking with a real estate agent right now to list this house and her doggie daycare. She wants to move in with Westley by the wedding, so I’ll be apartment hunting after the holidays.
Me: I see. Lots of change on the horizon.
Penny: Yes. On the plus side, I get to keep Goldie.
Me: Bonus. How’s the office?
Penny: Nice try, Mr. Bellamy. No shop talk
Me: Letting others handle things in my absence isn’t my best quality.
Penny: I’ve noticed. Need anything?
You, I wanted to say. But fuck… I held myself back again.
Me: Just your patience.
Penny: You have it. Always. I’m not going anywhere. Well, except to Vegas for Valentine’s.
Her words lingered… She was still there, waiting for me to be brave enough to meet her halfway.
My watch buzzed: gym time. Dr. Kramer had approved short outings, and today was my first session outside the penthouse. I’d put aside all thoughts of Penny, try to at least, for now.
The walk to Sambora’s gym was three slow, steady blocks. I’d bundled up for the chilly December air, but the sun on my skin felt damn good. I tilted my head up to it, grateful to be moving, and alive.
Inside the gym, while my trainer Sambora supervised my heroic effort at lifting two-pound weights, I spotted Griffin West stretching nearby.
“Bellamy.” He grinned, rushing over to me. “Heard about your scare. You good?”
“I’m here.” I set aside a weight so we could shake hands.
“That’s all that matters.” He nodded, then added, “Thanks for warning Holden about your ex. You probably saved him from a tabloid headline or from losing millions to another money-grabbing bitch.”
I swallowed. “Always.”
Penny had been the one who warned him, not me. That stung in a new way—she’d not only been protecting me, but a friend of mine, too. She didn’t have to do that for Holden, no real ties to him, but she did anyway because that’s the kind of big-hearted woman she was.
“Dating doesn’t get any easier, does it? Hard enough as a man with means. Even harder as a single dad.” He shook his head, and I felt bad for him. A good-looking man, great son Theo, more money than God…
“Can’t buy love or happiness, can we?” I couldn’t think of much else to say.
Griffin had been a relatively recent addition to our friend group, only arriving on the scene after Sophie and Keaton got together.
My impression of him was split between the hard-charging alpha male in business, which he’d need to be to run a mega corporation like West Games, and the attentive father to a growing boy who ran through nannies like they were water. Must be hard to work for.
Griffin clapped my shoulder. “Hey, I have a meeting to run to, but I envy you taking forced time from work. Don’t waste it.” He jogged off, leaving me with his words and more thoughts of Penny.
Shortly after I got home, I scanned inside my fridge for the latest meal my new heart-healthy chef had left me. Indie Jones came as a referral from Sambora, and right away the tall, militant woman scared the hell out of me in my kitchen.
While reaching for her Quinoa Special, whatever that was, Brooks let himself in.
“Brought my little man with me tonight,” he said, setting the baby carrier on the floor and the food on the counter. “And contraband Chinese.”
“Thank fuck.” I put the quinoa back.
Everett snoozed under a tiny hat while Brooks unloaded the feast. The smell of kung pao chicken overwhelmed me with guilt.
I devoured it. “Don’t tell my chef I ate this.”
Brooks chuckled. “She’ll sniff it out in your bloodstream, if she’s the bloodhound you’ve made her out to be.”
Afterward, we cleaned up, and Everett fussed. “Feeding time. Want to do the honors?” Brooks reached into the diaper bag.
“I don’t have a boob,” I quipped.
“Maisy pumped.” He produced a bottle.
“Too much detail.” Still, I took the baby Brooks had wrapped up in a blanket like a burrito, and settled on the couch with him in my arms, a pillow underneath for support. I found the perfect forty-five-degree angle for the bottle without even trying—thanks to my great architect instincts.
The little guy blinked up, trusting me because of course, I was the Greatest Uncle.
“Look at him, like a little bean.” My nephew was adorable.
“Not so little anymore. We call him a ham now, with the way he’s growing.”
“Cannot even imagine we were this small once. Think Dad ever fed us like this?”