Chapter Thirteen Allow Yourself to Be Vulnerable
Chapter Thirteen
Allow Yourself to Be Vulnerable
In the morning, I wake to the sound of my phone ringing. I grab it from the nightstand and croak, “Hello?”
“Alessia?” Joslyn’s voice startles me. What time is it? Where am I? And why am I so cold? “You sound awful. Are you okay?”
I try to sit up in bed but decide it’s too much effort. “I’m not sure,” I admit. “What’s up?”
I feel completely disoriented. I didn’t drink that much last night, did I? I remember leaving the club ... riding in the cab with Hart back to my hotel. Him kissing me and tucking me into bed.
“It’s 11:00 a.m. your time. You missed your 10:15 one-on-one with David. He called me in a huff wondering if your schedule had changed.”
I blink, trying to make sense of her words.
I never sleep this late. Never miss meetings.
With effort, I force myself into a seated position in the bed and stare at my phone.
She’s right. It’s 11:02, and I have a slew of missed calls and texts.
Some from David. A few from Joslyn. One good morning text from Hart.
I also slept right through my alarm. My throat feels sore, and my neck aches.
“Can you reschedule David? I think I’m coming down with something.”
“Of course,” she chirps. “Get some rest.”
I make myself get out of bed, and I head to the bathroom to check my toiletry bag for pain reliever, but don’t find any. I pee and glance at my reflection in the mirror. I look pale and tired. I crawl back into bed, deciding it’s the best place for me.
A short while later, there’s a knock at the door. I groan and pull a pillow over my head. “No housekeeping,” I call out when the knocking continues. My head feels like it’s been split in two. I knew the clubbing was a bad idea.
“It’s Hart,” a deep voice calls.
My eyes snap open. With a great amount of effort, I rise from the bed and pull the hotel robe on over my pajama shorts and camisole.
“Alessia?” He knocks again. “It’s Hart. Can you let me in?”
I release a slow sigh. This isn’t exactly how I want him to see me right now, with undereye circles and tangled hair. But I unlatch the security lock and open the door. “Hi,” I grumble, voice coming out in a weird croak. I clear my throat.
“Hi,” he returns, giving me a sympathetic look. “Your assistant called me. She said you were sick.”
My scalp tingles. Joslyn called him? That was crossing some sort of line, wasn’t it? Even in my cloudy-headed state, I knew that it was.
I only mentioned to her in passing that we’d hung out a couple of times. “She shouldn’t have called you,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. She said I was the only person she could think to call in New York.”
“What if I’m contagious?”
He cocks his head, watching me. “What are your symptoms?”
My throat feels like I swallowed razor blades, and my lymph nodes are swollen. I have a massive headache and sore muscles. “I feel like I’ve been run over by a subway train,” I grumble.
He takes my shoulders and steers me to the sofa, letting the door fall closed behind us. “I’ll risk it. Take a seat—let me get you some water.”
From a bag I didn’t realize he was carrying, he removes a bottle of Tylenol and a liter of water. He places two capsules in my palm and unscrews the top of the water. “Here,” he says soothingly, “this should help.”
Swallowing the pills seems more difficult than it should be, but apparently my throat is quite swollen.
“I brought you soup and orange juice and whatever this is.” He holds up a bottle of pink liquid that I think is an electrolyte drink.
Also from the bag come cough drops and a box of tissues—the extra-soft kind with lotion.
His care and concern are unexpected. He must have dropped everything when Joslyn called and rushed out to pick all this up for me.
It sends a rush of warmth skittering through my chest.
“Thank you,” I manage, finally swallowing both pills.
Hart recaps the water. “You’re very welcome. Do you want to try a little soup?”
I nod.
He unwraps the layers of cellophane from the container and pries off the lid. The scent of chicken broth greets me, and my stomach gives a weak growl.
With a plastic spoon, I take a few bites of the soup, which is still warm and very good, but even that tires me. “I’m not sure where I caught a bug,” I say, abandoning the soup on the coffee table.
“You’ve been working too hard,” he says, bringing a hand to my forehead. “You’re burning up.”
My eyelids droop, and I lean into his hand, which feels cool against my overheated skin.
“Let’s get you back into bed.” Hart rises to his feet and scoops me up from the couch. Carrying me to the bed, he sets me down on top of the duvet with so much tenderness that my insides flutter. I’ve never been taken care of this way.
“Tonight is my grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary,” he says, fluffing my pillows and tucking the blankets in around me. I told him in the Hamptons I’d meet him after the party. Obviously that’s not happening now.
“Have fun,” I say, eyes dropping closed as I snuggle into the pillow.
“Get some rest. I’ll call you later.” I feel his lips at my temple just as I’m falling asleep.
After twenty-four hours I feel like a new person.
I responded to a text from Hart telling him as much, and he dropped a pin sharing his location.
Hart: If you’re up for hanging out.
His message indicated nothing about where he was or what he was up to, but deciding I couldn’t stay in the hotel room any longer, I opted to risk it.
Dressing in jeans and a cozy tunic, I venture out.
The sun feels incredible on my skin, and after a short cab ride, I’m pulling up to the location, which turns out to be a posh athletic club, the prestigious kind with everything from squash courts to an ornately decorated dining room to a series of private conference rooms.
I make my way through a great room with a massive stone fireplace and several sofas, not sure where I’ll find him. Wandering past the dining room, I find Hart and his cousin Hayes seated side by side at the bar.
It’s the kind of old-school New York bar you’d find in a classic gangster movie. Dimly lit, with plenty of brass, dark wood accents, and glass bottles lined up neatly along a mirrored wall.
When Hart spots me, he waves me over. “Feeling better?”
I nod. “Much. Thank you.”
“Make room,” he says to Hayes, who slides down one barstool so I can sit next to Hart. But before I can even get settled, a sound of surprise behind us grabs our attention.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” a feminine voice calls out.
“Mia?” Hart turns, his voice filled with surprise.
“Hart!” she gasps, trotting over to hug him. Hart stands there, frozen, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides, but he doesn’t refuse the contact or push her away. She’s wearing a sequined minidress, and I’ve never felt more out of place than I do right now.
This is the girl who broke his heart.
They square off, staring at each other for a few tense seconds while a mountain of private information is communicated without speaking a single word. The moment is overwhelmingly intense, and unease swims through me.
Hayes wears a satisfied smirk like there’s something he enjoys about my discomfort or maybe Hart’s. Mia, for her part, seems a bit oblivious about any of this turmoil, seemingly happy about running into Hart here.
“You’re looking well, Mia,” Hayes says, standing to take his turn at a hug.
She pats his back and laughs. “You are too.”
Hart’s jaw flexes.
Mia is everything I’m not. She’s young and very pretty.
Tall and thin, without an ounce of body fat anywhere on her lanky frame.
There’s not a laugh line or sun spot as far as the eye can see.
But it’s more than that too. She’s carefree in a way that I’m not and probably never was.
I doubt she’s worked a day in her life. She’s probably never done her own taxes, driven a used car, or struggled at all.
I hate her on principle. Mature of me, I know.
Is this what he wants? A woman who looks like the equivalent of a chocolate croissant? Beautiful and tempting but with no nutritional value? A chill races down my spine.
But jealousy isn’t an emotion I’m used to, and I’m unsure what to do with these new, confusing feelings.
“Mia, this is Alessia Moore,” Hart says, introducing me.
“Nice to meet you.” She offers me her hand.
I shake it reluctantly and then fold myself back in against Hart’s side.
Confusion washes over her features. “Oh. Are the two of you ... together?” She hesitates over the words, as though they don’t taste right coming out of her mouth.
“No,” I say at the same time Hart says, “Yes.”
We exchange a look.
She laughs, an uninhibited, throaty sound that hits me square in the chest.
“Have you eaten?” Hart asks, brushing his fingers over my cheek with a look of concern.
I shake my head.
“Then let’s get you something to eat,” he suggests.
“Yes, let’s,” Hayes agrees, offering the seat next to him to Mia. “Join us.”
She smiles and places one manicured hand on his forearm. “You are too kind. But I can’t stay long. I’m meeting a friend for dinner in Midtown.”
Thank God for small miracles. I wasn’t planning to drink tonight given that I’m still recovering from being sick, but now that I’m faced with the possibility of sitting here with Hart’s ex, alcohol suddenly seems like a very good idea.
Mia orders an Aperol spritz, and I ask for a ginger ale, deciding I better pace myself.
She and Hayes catch up on the last year, their comings and goings—an endless list of concerts, operas, art shows, and so many vacations.
It’s nauseating listening to her. She smiles easily and laughs often, her entire face transforming when she does, and Hayes seems to have no trouble egging her on.
Hart asks for a menu and hands it to me, running one hand along my spine.
“How did the two of you meet?” Mia asks, swirling the straw in her cocktail as she appraises me and Hart, like there’s something that amuses her about observing us together.
“We met in Nairobi,” Hart says, his eyes on mine. “Alessia runs a foundation there.”
Her eyes narrow. “The trip to Kenya that your mother invited me to join?”
Hart swallows, his throat bobbing with displeasure. “She extended the invitation before you cheated on me.”
She squares her shoulders and gives him a look.
“Miss?” The bartender chooses that moment to check on us. My heart is busy slamming against my rib cage. “Can I get you anything else?”
“The check, please,” I say. I won’t allow Hart to sit here a moment longer and be subjected to this ridiculous moment. He’s too kind to send her away, and Hayes is too much of an asshole.
“Very well,” he murmurs, wandering off.
“Let’s go someplace else,” I say, touching Hart’s hand.
“Good idea.” He throws back the rest of his drink and tosses down a couple of bills.