Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
I turned the shower knob to its hottest setting, standing motionless as scalding water beat against my shoulders. Steam clouded the glass, but nothing could fog the clarity of Nick's words: "We need to talk at breakfast." My muscles tightened involuntarily, a familiar contraction that started just below my ribs and radiated outward. I pressed my palm against the shower wall, fingers splayed and took a breath. Those four words never preceded anything good.
By the time I turned off the shower, I'd constructed and demolished a dozen scenarios, each worse than the last.
If something had happened to Emmett, surely Nick wouldn't wait for breakfast to tell me. His eyes would have held urgency, not that careful restraint I'd glimpsed when he'd stood in my doorway.
No, this had to be about the kiss.
I closed my eyes, and unbidden, the moment replayed: the rough texture of his five o’clock shadow brushing against my skin, the scent of his cologne, the hesitation in his eyes before he leaned down. The gentle pressure of his lips, tentative at first, then suddenly not. The way his hand had cradled my face and then my butt.
I touched my lips, the phantom sensation still electric. Then reality crashed back—how he'd pulled away, expression shifting from desire to something unreadable. How he'd muttered an apology and disappeared, leaving me breathless and confused. He regretted it. Of course he did and now he was going to tell me.
I dressed with trembling fingers, discarding three outfits before settling on a simple blouse and jeans—casual enough to suggest I hadn't overthought this.
The scent of coffee and cinnamon rolled up the stairs to greet me as I descended, each step heavier than the last. A deceptively cozy welcome to what might be the most uncomfortable breakfast of my life.
Arlena's domain gleamed with morning light and lemon-scented polish.
"Good morning, Arlena." My voice sounded steadier than I felt, the result of years of masking uncertainty. "Need any help?"
She turned, cloth pausing mid-swipe on the counter. "Oh, good morning, dear." Her smile held a hint of something—knowledge? Sympathy? "Mr. Pearson's waiting on the second-floor patio. Best not let the food get cold."
My feet refused to move. The second-floor patio might as well have been in another country—I'd seen glimpses of it from the patio, but I had no idea how to get to it.
Arlena's knowing look softened. "Through his bedroom, dear. The French doors at the far end." She hesitated, then added with just the slightest emphasis, "He's decent. And waiting."
His bedroom. Of course it would be through his bedroom. Because this morning wasn't complicated enough already.
"Thank you." I smiled before twisting and bolting for the second floor.
The second-floor patio hung like a private oasis above the manicured grounds, bordered by wrought-iron railings. Nick sat at a glass-topped table that caught the rising sun like diamonds, his crisp white shirt and dark slacks a study in expensive simplicity.
He must have sensed my presence because his gaze lifted as I came through his room, and he smiled. Taking a seat across from him, a rush of wind flowed through, bringing his scent of spicy, clean soap along for the ride, which smelled much better than the food sitting in front of us.
I shifted in my seat. "What did you want to talk about?"
Nick's coffee cup paused halfway to his lips. "Eat something first."
I stabbed at my eggs, the silverware clinking too loudly against fine china.
I inwardly groaned. I didn't want to wait, but I also didn't want to argue, so I shoveled the food in as fast as I could without choking.
The last bite of toast felt like sand in my mouth. "So." I set my fork down with exaggerated care. "What did you want to talk about?"
His eyes flicked up, something unreadable passing behind them. "I called the school."
"Oh." I reached for my water glass, buying time. Something in his expression made me doubt everything I'd assumed about my fresh start. "When will my dorm be ready?"
Nick's shoulders tensed beneath his pressed shirt. "There's some confusion."
"What kind of confusion?"
"When did you register for USF?"
"I didn't." The orange juice suddenly tasted too sweet. "I didn't want to go to USF. Emmett handled everything."
His jaw tightened. "Emmett applied to the college for you?"
"Yes." I leaned forward, stomach knotting. "What's going on, Nick?"
"The school has no record of you applying there."
"That has to be a mistake." My voice came out small against the vast marble patio.
"Possibly," he said slowly, but the skepticism in his tone rang loud and clear." But school started over two weeks ago, and if you had registered, you would have been dropped from your classes by now."
"Emmett must have been confused."
He stared at me as if he didn’t believe that. "Perhaps.”
"I guess I can go back to New York until the following semester, or I can get an apartment here by then. I need to get a hold of Emmett to find out what I should do."
"I have a better idea." Nick's voice shifted to the same tone he'd used during a business call the night before—confident, no room for argument.
I straightened in my chair, bracing myself.
"I'm working on getting your transcripts sent over and enrolling you for next semester." He ticked points off on his fingers. "The university president is a good friend of mine."
Of course he was. In Nick's world, everyone important was a friend.
"He'll put you at the top of the waiting list for a dorm room, even though you're not registered yet."
A bird darted past the railing, hovering momentarily before zipping away—free in a way I suddenly envied.
"While you wait for a dorm room," Nick continued, his eyes tracking my reaction, "you can stay here."
I opened my mouth to protest, but he held up a hand.
"And—" His lips quirked in what might have been anticipation. "If you'd like, I have a job for you."
I blinked, coffee cup suspended halfway to my lips. "A job?"
"A job," he confirmed, satisfaction evident in the subtle relaxation of his shoulders.
This was a lot of information to process at once. Housing, school, and now employment—all neatly arranged like pieces on a chessboard, but that was pretty much how my life had worked since my parents had died. "What kind of job?"
Nick leaned back, fingers steepled. "While I was working on getting your transcripts, I learned you have a Bachelor's in finance."
I nodded. I’d always been good with numbers.
"My business mostly handles investments." he lifted his coffee cup. "However, we also do a lot of financial consulting for other businesses and some... wealthy people."
The pause before "wealthy" spoke volumes about the caliber of clients he served.
He paused to take a sip of coffee, the morning light catching the expensive watch on his wrist. "There's an open position working for Derrick Owens, my financial director. You would mostly be going through financial records, looking for errors or inconsistencies so that the consultants can properly advise the client."
"I've never—" My fingers twisted in my napkin. "Nick, you can't just hand me a job because you feel responsible for me. I came here to stand on my own feet, not to trade one person taking care of me for another."
"Is that what you think this is?" The edge in his voice made me look up. He'd leaned forward, elbows on the table—a crack in his usual perfect posture. "You graduated top of your class, Olivia. Do you think I built this company by hiring people I felt sorry for?" A hint of that familiar half-smile softened his words. "The housing situation is temporary. The job offer isn't charity—it's business."
"Business," I echoed, testing the word. It sounded different in his mouth than it had in Emmett's.
I wasn't sure what to think. The job sounded amazing, but I wasn't sure about living with Nick. I didn't want to impose on his lifestyle or inconvenience him. But I also didn't know how to tell him no.
"Okay,” I finally replied, the words feeling like surrender. "But I don't want to be a burden."
"You could never be a burden. I'm glad you're here." He flashed a reassuring smile, the kind that softened the hard edges of his face. "Plus, you'll be in a dorm before you know it. You'll start work for a half-day on Monday."
I returned the smile and nodded in agreement. Problem solved. Crisis averted. I gathered my napkin to place it beside my plate, ready to escape the intensity of his gaze and process everything alone.
"Wait, Olivia." His tone shifted, the lightness evaporating like morning mist.
My hand froze mid-movement. "Yes?” My brows raised as my stomach clenched. His expression had changed, reminding me of courtroom dramas where the real questioning was just beginning. "Please tell me it's not another mess like the school."
Nick folded his hands on the table. A businessman's pose. A negotiator's stance.
"Have you talked to Emmett since you've been here?"
I shook my head, unease growing at the careful neutrality in his voice.
He held my gaze, unflinching. "What happened to your inheritance?"
My brows pulled together, and my head twisted. "Inheritance?" The word felt foreign on my tongue, like a language I'd never learned.
Nick's fingers drummed once against his coffee cup. "The money your parents left you." His voice was carefully neutral.
"There wasn't—" I stopped, something in his expression making me choose my next words carefully. "There was no money." Each fact fell between us like stones into still water. "You know this. You were there."
His eyes narrowed, not in confusion but in something darker.
"Who told you that, Olivia?" Nick's voice was soft, but something dangerous lurked beneath the surface.
The morning sun suddenly felt too bright, too exposing. I squinted against it, wishing for shadows to hide in.
"Emmett did. He handled everything after—" The words stuck in my throat. Even after all these years, I couldn't say it aloud. "After."
Nick set his coffee cup down. "Why would he tell you that?"
"Because it's true." I searched his face. "Why are you looking at me like that? Like I'm... missing something obvious."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Don't you have a bank account?"
"A bank—" I gave a short laugh. "No. Why would I?"
"Most adults have bank accounts, Olivia."
Heat crept up my neck. "Emmett's always taken care of the finances."
"Of course he has," Nick murmured, more to himself than to me.
"Look, I didn't have a job. He supported me financially. There was no reason?—"
"What about your parents' assets?" He cut through my explanation like a knife through silk.
"What assets?" My voice sharpened. "They weren't doing as well as everyone thought."
Something flickered in Nick's eyes—disbelief? Pity?
"Our house was foreclosed on shortly after you left. Back taxes," I added, the familiar explanation bitter on my tongue. "The business was failing long before Emmett got his hands on it." I recited the facts as I'd heard them a hundred times. "They were broke, Nick. They had nothing to leave us."
"Is that what he told you?" Nick's knuckles whitened around his cup.
"That's what happened." But even as I said it, fear crept in. "Why? What’s going on?"
Nick shook his head. "I was under the impression that your parents left an inheritance to you and Emmett, but I must have been mistaken."
"If they would have left us something, they would have left it for you as well."
He smiled. "I know." A silent moment passed between the two of us. Perhaps the silence was in remembrance of my parents or something else. "I have some stuff for you." Nick stood from the table and headed into his room, and I followed. "Here is your new cell phone." He handed me a brand-new smartphone. "Here is your new laptop." He showed me the laptop before laying it on the desk in his room. "And here are the keys to your new car." He jingled the keys right in front of my face.
The keys dangled between us like a challenge. "Nick." My voice caught somewhere between gratitude and panic. "This is too much. All of it."
"Is it?" That familiar arch of his eyebrow—half amusement, half stubbornness. "Walk me through how you plan to handle client calls without a phone, or manage spreadsheets without a laptop." He took a step closer, voice dropping. "Or maybe you're planning to skateboard to work?"
"I could—" The protest died on my lips as his expression shifted to something softer, more serious.
"Let me do this, Olivia." The keys pressed into my palm, warm from his hand. "Not because you need it, but because I—" He caught himself, cleared his throat. "Because the company needs you mobile and connected. Consider it a business investment."
"A business investment," I repeated, fingers curling around the keys. "With a very generous interest rate."
His laugh surprised us both. "We'll negotiate terms later."
"Thanks, Nick, for everything."
"No problem, I have to go to work for a couple of hours. Will you be okay here?"
"Of course."
"I programmed all of my numbers into your phone as well as Jackson's, my driver, Carson, who handles all my security, Justin's, my business partner, Emmett's, and Hannah's. If you have an emergency, you should be able to get a hold of one of us."
"Thanks." I felt out of place.
"No problem," he smiled. "Oh, and here's your credit card." He pulled a thin card from his wallet and handed it to me. The look of confusion didn't go unnoticed. "What's the matter?"
"I don't have a credit card. I had a card connected with Emmett's accounts, but that's not it."
"This is connected to my accounts," he replied, shoving the card into my hand. "There's no budget if you need it to use it."
"No, thank you, Nick." I tried shoving the card back at him. "I can't repay all of this; the clothes, the money, the phone, any of it. Emmett will be furious if he finds out I ran up a bill like this."
"Olivia, you don't have to pay me back. I want to help, and don't worry about Emmett. I'll handle him." I didn't like this feeling. Nick didn't owe me anything, and I felt like he thought he was responsible for me, and he wasn't. But I shook my head, not wanting to argue.
"One more thing." Nick's casual tone set off immediate warning bells. "There's a charity function tonight."
My relief at changing subjects evaporated. "Oh?"
"The children's hospital fundraiser." He watched me over his coffee cup, too carefully. "It's a red carpet event, and I was hoping you'd join me."
The word 'date' hung unspoken between us. "I'm not exactly society page material."
He crossed the space between us in two steps—deliberate, unhurried. The air between us seemed to thin, oxygen replaced by the subtle notes of his cologne. My lungs contracted, each breath shallow and insufficient.
His finger tilted my chin up, the contact feather-light but electric. Heat radiated from that single point of contact, traveling along my jawline, down my throat. For a heartbeat, his gaze dropped to my lips, and the world narrowed to impossible possibility.
But no. When his eyes met mine again, they were serious, the fleeting warmth replaced by something more measured. Professional. The moment crystallized, then fractured.
"You're exactly who I want there with me." The pad of his thumb brushed my jawline, feather-light. "Even if we have to arrive separately to avoid the press vultures."
"Vultures?" My laugh came out shaky. "Not helping the anxiety here."
His answering smile reached his eyes, softening the sharp lines of his face. "Trust me?"
And there it was—the real question beneath the invitation. The question that had hovered between us since I arrived on his doorstep.
"Yes," I whispered, surprising us both with how much I meant it.
Something shifted in his expression—relief, perhaps, or something deeper. The moment stretched between us, fragile and charged.
Then, like a spell breaking, he straightened his cuffs—a businessman once more. "Hannah is picking up a dress for you. She'll help you get ready."
Hannah. The thought of another person—a woman, someone I might actually talk to—lifted some of the weight from my shoulders. I needed a confidante, someone to help me navigate this strange new world I'd stepped into. Someone who might explain Nick to me, or at least men in general.
"What time will you be picking me up?" I was already mentally rehearsing what I might say to Hannah.
Nick's expression turned apologetic. "You and Hannah will ride together. I'll be there before you arrive, waiting for you." He hesitated, then added, "Typically, Jackson would drive you, but the press would notice."
The press. Of course. I was forgetting who Nick was in the world outside these walls.
"A friend of Jackson's will drive you and Hannah," he continued. "Separate arrivals, separate cars with deter the press. It’s simpler this way."
Simpler.
I nodded, illustrating that I understood.
Each step took me further from Nick but not from the questions that multiplied with every hour I spent in his presence. Questions about my past, my future, and the confusing, complicated man I was living with.