Chapter Twenty-Three
Taylor
My stylus glides over the tablet as I put the finishing touches on a drawing I’ve been working on all week as a surprise for Seth.
It’s Friday, and he’s back in New York City, but even with the physical distance, it feels like he’s right here with me.
Last weekend was so wonderful, it was hard to say goodbye when he left Sunday evening.
But this week has been easy in a way I didn’t know relationships could be.
We share morning texts, middle-of-the-day check-ins, and late-night calls that stretch until one of us just about falls asleep midsentence.
He’s coming for the weekend, and I’m excited to see him tonight.
I turn in my office chair and prop my socked feet up on the windowsill, returning my attention to the drawing.
I strengthen the edge of the wooden spear, then soften the ripple of the shallow water.
I can almost feel the heat of the Caribbean sun radiating off the page, so different from the winter-white sky breaking through the shivery dawn outside my window.
Lifting my stylus, I study the image of Missick as a lanky young teen, old enough to carry responsibility on his shoulders, young enough to enjoy the thrill of hunting with Seth.
He’s wearing colorful bathing trunks, his bare feet blurry in the shallow water.
One hand shades his squinting eyes from the sun, the other holds a hand-carved spear.
Beside him, Seth crouches barefoot on a big rock in bright yellow shorts smeared with dirt, blue eyes full of determination and quiet worry, trying to be tough and cool for Missick’s sake, while silently praying he won’t have to hurt the fish.
His thick, dark hair falls into his eyes, wild with a touch of curl from saltwater and humidity, black-framed glasses sliding down his sunburned nose.
I’ve drawn him with one arm angled slightly in front of Missick, imagining that even back then he couldn’t help but keep the people he cared about safe.
Satisfied with the drawing, I’m about to sign it in my usual way, my initials in the lower left, but think better of it. Instead, I draw a tiny heart and write Ellie beside it.
I glance at the time. 6:45. Perfect.
Seth sounded exhausted after his evening run in the freezing cold last night. I swear there’s nothing that man can’t do. He’s got a big day of meetings ahead of him, and I want the picture to be the first thing he sees. I export the picture to my phone and text him.
Me: Good morning. I add a sunshine emoji. I couldn’t resist drawing you and Missick in your pre-empire days. Thank you for trusting me enough to share him with me.
I add a kissing emoji, attach the picture, and send it to him.
I’m heading into the kitchen to refill my coffee mug when Seth calls.
I gave him my personal phone number last weekend, and even after getting dozens of messages and several phone calls, seeing his name on the screen still makes me feel all warm and fluttery.
“Good morning, Mr. Braden,” I say on speaker.
“Hey, beautiful.” He sounds weak, raspy, and congested. “This picture is incredible, El. It looks just like we did back then. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, but you sound terrible. How do you feel?”
“Like I’m dying,” he says weakly. “I think I’ve got a fever. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I’m afraid I’m stuck here this weekend.”
“That’s okay. I’m sorry you’re sick. I’ll cancel your meetings. Do you want me to reschedule for next week?”
“That’d be great, assuming I survive the plague.”
I smile at that, so different from my father, who would insist he could push through the actual plague. “I’m pretty sure you’ll survive. Do you need anything? Do you have Tylenol or Motrin?”
“Yeah, I think I do, and the hospital isn’t far.”
“Hospital? How sick are you?”
“I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”
“You poor thing. It’s probably that twenty-four-hour bug that’s going around. What can I do?”
“Pray to the health gods,” he says. “Miss you, Ellie.”
“I miss you, too. Get some rest, and drink lots of fluids, okay?”
“I will. If I don’t answer later, send an ambulance.”
“Okay.” I laugh softly.
After we end the call, I rearrange Seth’s schedule, but I can’t stop thinking about him.
He sounded awful, and I know how much it stinks to be sick when you’re alone.
Unless you’re my father, who prefers it that way.
Seth didn’t sound grumpy, just sick, so I pack a few cans of soup, a box of crackers, Tylenol and Motrin in case he doesn’t have any, cold medicine, the tin of tea he gave me, a jar of honey, and a thermometer.
I send a quick text to my father, who is doing much better, and to Becca, letting them know I’m heading into the city.
I rarely come to the city. The traffic and sheer number of people make me a little uncomfortable, but Tribeca, where Seth lives, feels less chaotic.
With cobblestone streets and old brick buildings that have been softened by glass and light, warehouses that have been rehabbed into pricy steel-infused lofts and glass-fronted apartments, it’s a perfect fit for a man like Seth.
The cold air bites at my fingers as I stand in front of his building.
Even after the island, and all we’ve been through together in such a short amount of time, there’s still a part of me that can’t believe I’m here, about to go up to Seth’s home.
My nerves prickle, and I have a fleeting moment of insecurity and debate turning around and going home.
But that’s the younger girl in me that still believes if I wasn’t enough for my mother to stay, if I was too much for Cody, then I don’t deserve to be adored by someone as wonderful as Seth.
I hate that feeling, and I hate that I still have it after all these years, especially with him. He’s done nothing but show me he likes who I am and wants to be with me. I push through those old wounds and press the call button beside the door.
The intercom crackles softly, a camera lens blinking above it. My nerves flare again. I should have texted.
“Ellie?” His rough, tired voice startles me as it comes through the speaker.
“Hi. I was worried about you, so I brought you a few things.” I hold up the bag.
“Come on up. Take the elevator on your right. I’ll have it waiting for you.”
The lock on the front door buzzes, and I step into the lobby, which is lined with pale stone and brushed steel. The elevator to my right stands open. Inside, there’s no panel of buttons. The doors close, and the elevator carries me upward.
It opens directly into what appears to be a massive open loft, with floor-to-ceiling windows lining one wall, exposed steel beams striping the ceiling, and polished concrete floors catching the pale winter sun.
My attention lands on Seth as he pushes to his feet from one of two worn leather couches.
He’s a little unsteady, a green hoodie hanging loose over gray sweatpants.
His hair’s a mess, his eyes glassy, color high in his cheeks, all of which tugs at something protective in me.
“Ellie,” he rasps, his voice rough from sleep or fever. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Too late.” I step inside, and the elevator doors close behind me.
Only then, as I go to him, does the rest of the loft come into focus.
Books are everywhere—stacked on end tables, leaning in towers by the windows, stockpiled on built-in bookcases.
I think I found his safe haven. Books. A sleek kitchen runs the length of the far wall, with a narrow bar off to one side, and a dining table sits near the windows like an afterthought.
Open double doors reveal another room, and beside it, a half wall of glass and steel divides an office from the rest of the space.
An ideal setup for the man who can’t stand to feel confined.
I set the bag of supplies and my tote on the coffee table next to Seth’s laptop, which sits open beside a notebook, calculations and notes scrawled across the page. Of course he’s been working. “Even sick and rumpled, you’re unfairly handsome.”
A tired smile curves his lips. “I’m glad you think so. You didn’t have to come all this way.”
“You didn’t have to leave Australia for me.” I lean in and kiss his cheek. “And now you’ve infected me, so you might as well let me make you tea.”
He huffs a laugh that dissolves into a cough. “You’re going to regret this tomorrow.”
“I doubt that.” I point to the couch. “Sit.”
He sinks down to the cushion, clearly too tired to argue.
“Blanket?” I ask.
“Bedroom.” He points to open double doors.
I head into the bedroom, which is outfitted with similar substantial furniture to his bedroom on the island. There are books piled on the nightstand, and the unmade bed tugs at my heartstrings. Mr. Tidy must really feel awful.
I snag a blue throw blanket that’s bunched up on the bed and carry it out to the living room, where Seth is sitting with his head back, eyes closed. I drape the blanket across his lap, and his eyes open, a small smile sliding into place.
He takes my hand, gently tugging me down beside him. “I’m glad you’re here. It’s better than dying alone.”
I bite back a laugh. For a man who can run half the world, he is hopelessly dramatic when he’s sick, and it’s completely endearing. “Let’s take dying off the table.” I feel his forehead with the back of my hand. He’s warm but not too hot. “Did you take anything for the fever?”
He shakes his head. “Not yet.”
“Good thing I came prepared. Maybe we can avoid the hospital visit.” I reach into the bag and hand him one of the bottles of Gatorade I bought on the way here. Then I shake two Tylenols into his palm. As he takes them, I say, “Are you hungry? I brought soup and crackers.”
He shrugs like a petulant child.
“How about some hot tea with honey? It’ll soothe your throat.”
His eyes brighten, and he nods.
“Think you’ll be okay while I make it?”
“I guess.”
A laugh slips out as I push to my feet. He snags my hand, giving me a pitiful look. “Yes, Mr. Braden?”
“Do you know how much I want to kiss you right now, Ms. Nunnally?”
God, he’s even charming when he’s sick.
“Probably a lot since I’m your only hope for survival.”
He smiles, and his hand slides to my fingertips as I pull it away to reach for the bag. He stretches out on the couch, and I carry the supplies into the kitchen. I empty the bag onto the counter and put the kettle on. While it heats up, I wander over to check out the bookshelves.
I can’t imagine how much knowledge is in Seth’s brain.
He has books covering an array of business and finance topics, psychology, philosophy, a few weathered field journals, and a plethora of well-read novels with bent spines and faded covers.
Mixed in with the books are fairly recent framed photos of his family.
His grandparents sitting on a porch swing, holding hands, his parents with Flynn and Sutton sitting around a bonfire on a patio with the ocean in the background, Clay and Pepper, arm in arm, bundled in winter coats and hats in front of a theater, and Noah standing on a boat, shirtless, in the middle of the sea.
There’s a picture of an older couple sitting on a couch. They’re sitting a good six inches apart, smiles gentle, hands folded in their laps, so different from all the other pictures. “Are these your relatives?” I ask, showing Seth the picture when he looks over.
“My mom’s parents.”
“Do you see them often?”
“No. They live in Illinois, and they’re really conservative. They never agreed with the way my parents raised us. I don’t know them well. It sucks for my mom.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Different strokes, right?” Seth says, and lies back, closing his eyes again.
I make my way around the couch, and my gaze catches on a framed picture on the end table.
I pick it up, studying the photograph of one of my sketches from the sketchbook he returned.
It’s a picture of the glass orchard, full of leaves and baubles, with Seth giving Noah a piggyback on the hillside below.
My heart stutters. “You took a picture of my drawing?”
He glances over, eyes at half-mast. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I should’ve asked. I just…I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again, and I wanted to keep a piece of us.”
A lump forms in my throat. “You kept a piece of me even after I left like Cinderella fleeing the ball?”
He nods. “Are you upset?”
My chest tightens, and I shake my head, setting the frame back down on the end table. “I love that you did that.”
His mouth curves, slow and tired.
The kettle whistles. “Be right back.” I make his tea, and when I return, he sits up, making room for me as I put a coaster on the table. “It’s hot. Be careful,” I say, handing it to him.
He takes a sip. “It’s perfect, thank you. You shouldn’t have come all the way down here. You’ve got enough on your plate.”
“My plate is never too full for you,” I say, simple and true.
He studies me for a moment, his thumb tracing the mug’s handle. “Still,” he says. “Next time you head into the city, text me before you leave.”
“Why? So you can tell me not to come?”
“No. So I know when to worry if you don’t make it.”
Oh my heart. “You’re on your self-diagnosed deathbed, and that’s what you’re thinking about? Taking care of me?”
He gives a soft, helpless smile. “Pretty sure that’s not something I can turn off.”
“I’m so lucky to be someone you care about.” I sit beside him, our shoulders touching. “But how about if you rest today and worry about me when you’re feeling better?”
He takes a few more sips of tea, then puts the cup on the coaster and takes my hand as he leans back and closes his eyes.
I pull out my phone and put it on the end table. “Here, lie down and put your head in my lap. I have to do some work for Knox anyway. I can do it on my phone while you sleep.” I scoot over.
“Is it weird that I’m jealous?” he asks as he stretches out.
“Yes.” I laugh. “Close your eyes and go to sleep.”
He turns onto his side and wraps his arms around me, snuggling in.
I pull the blanket around him and run my fingers through his hair.
It doesn’t take long before he feels heavier, his hold on me loosening, as if he’s forgotten to hold everything together for once.
I don’t reach for my phone or move a muscle other than running my fingers through his hair.
I just enjoy this moment and thank my lucky stars for the trust he’s bestowed in me.