Chapter 16
Phoenix
We pass the afternoon in silence.
Holland is curled up on the lounge chair, her nose buried in her phone, and she smiles to herself every so often—I know this because I’m sneaking more peeks at her than I should—but she never says anything.
I do work like I said I was going to, but I’m inefficient and distracted. My eyes keep darting around the suite, at the heart-shaped jacuzzi, the rose petals on the bed, the sumptuous silk-upholstered headboard.
The level of romance expected in a room like this is almost suffocating.
When the sky starts to darken outside the sliding glass door, a knock sounds at the door to the suite.
I startle, standing up so fast my head spins. Then I groan in pain; I’ve been sitting in the same spot for hours.
“Relax,” Holland says. “It’s just room service.”
I blink at her. “You ordered room service?”
“Yeah,” she says, unfolding herself from the chaise lounge. “Aren’t you hungry? We haven’t eaten all day.”
“You had strawberries,” I point out.
“Fine,” she says, padding to the door. “ You haven’t eaten all day. And I’m hungry anyway. ”
“Did you not think to ask me what I wanted?” I say, folding my arms and frowning at her.
She opens the door to the suite with a lurch and smiles at someone I can’t see. “Hi,” she says, sounding far more cheerful than she ever does when she talks to me. “Thank you so much.” She pulls a few bills out of the pocket of the flannel pants—was there already money in there?—and passes them to the person outside. Then she closes the door and comes to me carrying two large paper bags.
“Isn’t this supposed to be on a rolling cart?” I say, but she just shrugs.
“I didn’t ask what you wanted,” she says, passing me one of the bags, “because when I checked the menu, they had Cobb salad.”
My go-to order, nine times out of ten. Especially if?—
“And they let me specify that I wanted the bacon extra crispy.”
Something stirs low in my stomach, something I think I recognize; it’s the same feeling I had on the steps outside Town Hall, when she as good as admitted that she was marrying me in part so I could inherit Butterfield.
It’s a warm feeling, slow and languid, and I’m not crazy about it—or its implications.
“Thanks,” I say grudgingly, taking the bag from her. She just nods and then carries her own food over to the lounge chair. We eat in silence, and with every moment that passes, the sky darkens more and more.
That darkening sky seems to be conjuring a rock in the pit of my stomach. Because dark means bedtime, and bedtime means bed, under the covers, next to Holland.
My wife .
When I steal a glance at her and find her eyes on me, a grimace on her face, I know we’re thinking about the same thing.
“We just have to do it,” I say, keeping my voice brisk and businesslike. The warmth she sometimes makes me feel has no place here. I gather up my trash from my meal and head into the bathroom to throw it away, speaking over my shoulder. “This will only be a big deal if we turn it into one. You sleep on one side, I’ll sleep on the other, pillows down the middle.”
“You snore,” she says, following me.
How does she even know that? “I wear nasal strips,” I say shortly. “Give me my pajamas and choose a side of the bed. I don’t care either way.”
“Fine,” she says. She tosses her trash in after mine and then drifts to her suitcase, clearly not excited about the prospect of sharing a bed with me.
I’m not too thrilled about it either.
She pulls out her nightgown and then goes back to the bathroom, emerging one minute later looking like temptation personified. I avert my eyes and take the shirt and pants she passes me.
You are not attracted to her , I tell myself firmly. Get it together.
And of course I’m not—of course I’m not. A bit of bare skin is not what makes a woman appealing in my eyes. No amount of physical beauty can make a bad personality look good.
But into my mind, unbidden, pops the memory of this morning outside Mavis’s hospital suite—Holland fixing my tie, her focused gaze, her satisfied nod when she finished.
And beneath that, another memory of her hand on my tie, in my office this time, pulling me closer as we battle?—
And yet another memory, buried more deeply still beneath years of ignoring—flashes of the one moment I never let myself think about.
A dark closet; lips chasing.
My eyes pop wide as it hits me: I think I might actually be attracted to this woman.
“No way,” I mutter, shaking my head as I close myself in the bathroom. I change quickly and then step out again, my gaze seeking Holland. I find her climbing into bed, and for a second I just let myself stare.
My brows furrow as I take in her golden hair spilling over her shoulders; my mouth pulls down into a frown when I notice the slope of her neck and the vulnerable hollow of her collarbone.
I watch as she begins creating a wall of pillows down the middle of the mattress, working intently, and that warmth stirs again in my gut—it even rises up into my chest when I notice her tongue poking out between her teeth, her face screwed up in concentration as she balances pillow after pillow?—
“No!”
The word rips out of me before I realize it; she jumps as she looks at me from the bed, but I can’t fix my horrified expression.
Absolutely not. I can’t be attracted to her. I can’t be attracted to Holland Blakely of all people?—
Holland Park, my traitorous mind whispers.
“Why are you shouting?” she says, looking annoyed. “You scared me.” She resumes her pillow piling. “I’m going to bed. Do whatever you want, but this is my side”—she gestures to her side of the bed—“so don’t cross over or I’ll force feed you toothpaste Oreos every day for a month.”
I roll my eyes and cross the room, approaching my side of the bed. “Sleeping close to you is the more disgusting option between those two,” I say, but the words are forced—because they’re not true.
I’m attracted to her. How could my brain and my body do this to me? How could I suddenly be finding her… desirable?
Is it really all that sudden, though? my brain whispers.
Right. Tucking that thought away forever. I shudder, shooting her another horrified look as I climb into bed. I manage to smooth my expression when she looks at me this time, though; we exchange awkward glances, sitting up in bed next to each other with nothing but pillows separating us, and then as one we lie down, turning our backs.
She clicks her lamp off a moment later, and the room falls into darkness; my last, reassuring thought is that it could be worse.
Because desiring her is one thing, but it’s better than falling in love.
I awake suddenly, and for a second, I don’t know why. It takes me a minute of reorientation to even figure out where I am or what I’m doing—or why I can hear the sound of another person in bed with me.
It all comes rushing back, though, when I hear a knock on the door. That’s what woke me, I realize, and I grope around in the dark for my phone to check the time.
One-thirty-eight in the morning.
My pulse hitches and then begins to speed up. This is Mavis; it has to be.
I reach blindly to my left, shaking Holland.
“Wake up,” I whisper. “Amsterdam. Amsterdam!”
Her groggy groan does not inspire confidence.
“Someone is knocking on the door,” I say.
I hear a yawn. Then she mumbles, “What are you talking?—”
Thud, thud, thud.
A second of silence. Then, sounding more alert, she says, “Someone is at the door.”
“I know,” I say quickly as I reach for the pillow barricade that has miraculously survived the night so far. I grab as many as I can with one clutching hand, tossing them aside frantically. “Come on, help me get rid of the pillows.”
“I don’t want to get rid of the pillows— ouch, Flamingo, that was my head!”
“Stop flailing around, then!” I say. “Help me get these off.”
Thud, thud, thud, thud!
We throw pillows until there aren’t any more; my eyes have adjusted to the dark enough that I can see them on the floor, vague light splotches.
“Now spoon,” I say, hating every word. “Come on—spoon me.”
“Absolutely not,” she says; I can make out the shape of her, roughly, and I think she’s folding her arms. “This is insane. What if we were naked in here? This is illegal, isn’t it?”
“Not if Mavis’s name is on the reservation,” I say irritably. “Which it is. It’s just scummy. Come on—over here.” I pat the bed next to me. “You can be little spoon.”
“I—”
“Amsterdam!”
“Fine!” she snaps. “Fine. For the record, I will only ever be little spoon,” she goes on. “Never expect otherwise.”
I pause, even though there’s no time. “This isn’t something we’re going to do a lot. Or ever again, for that matter. ”
“I know,” she says after a beat of silence.
Her voice is near now, so I reach blindly into the dark in front of me and find her—the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip. I lock my arm around her and pull her closer.
“Sorry,” I mutter, because we’re closer than either of us wants to be.
From across the dark room, the door beeps—the sound of a key card being accepted.
“Pretend to be asleep,” I say quickly. “Now. Close your eyes. Pretend to be asleep.”
She stops moving at once, her body relaxing as she falls silent.
The door to the room lurches open.
And even though every instinct in me is screaming that I need to protect her, protect myself—I do nothing. I remain motionless, my arm snaked around her waist, my breathing slow. I do nothing as I listen to the nearly silent footsteps; I do nothing when I realize that that can’t possibly be Mavis, based on how quick and quiet they are.
Who on earth is in this bedroom, where me and my new wife are presumably sleeping?
The answer comes seconds later when I hear a dull thud, followed by a hiss of pain.
Lawrence—that’s my cousin Lawrence, likely here on behalf of both himself and his father.
I hope his toe is broken.
While I recognize my cousin’s pained exhale, however, Holland doesn’t; she’s doing her best to remain still, but I can feel her body beginning to tremble, and I put myself in her shoes.
She’s listening to a strange man enter her bedroom. Of course she’s terrified.
Something hot and angry rises in my chest—anger at my family for being like this, and anger at myself for dragging her into it. I tighten my arm around her and breathe into her ear: “My cousin.”
Her shaking doesn’t subside, but she somehow burrows closer to me, and although I’m surprised, I don’t push her away. When a beam of light falls on us, we both shift, but I keep my arm around her.
The light wanders for just a few seconds, and then it’s dark again; after another moment, the door to the suite closes.
He’s gone.
But we don’t move.
“Your entire family is psycho,” Holland finally says, her voice faint like she can’t quite believe it. “You’re the most normal one. How is that even possible? How did I marry into this?” She’s shaking still, and when the shaking becomes more pronounced, I tighten my arm around her.
“Listen to me—Holland, listen. ” So strange, calling her by her name like this, but…we’re already spooning. Plus there’s something odd about this darkness; it feels like another plane, where our normal rules don’t apply. I can’t see her, she can’t see me, it’s the middle of the night and we’re in bed together; I know, instinctively, that whatever I say here tonight will stay here. Both of us will pretend this never occurred.
So I call her by her name, because I need her to pay attention. I need her to understand. “I will not let anything happen to you. Okay?”
She doesn’t answer; I speak again.
“I swear,” I say into the darkness. Her hair tickles my face, but I don’t try to move. “Nothing will happen to you while you’re married to me.” Then, my voice gentler, I add, “Trust me, please. ”
“Impossible,” she says, and I can hear the bravado she’s trying to muster, but the words just come out shaky. “I don’t trust you at all.”
I sigh. I guess we’re going to talk about the things we never talk about—more things we’ll leave in this marriage bed when we get up in the morning. Because it’s hitting me, all at once, the truth of what Wyatt said: that whatever Holland and I are, we’re close ones. I didn’t believe him, or maybe I didn’t want to admit it, but…he was right.
I need her to see that. Because she’s shaking in my arms, and it bothers me in a way I can’t explain.
“You trust me,” I say. “You do, or you wouldn’t have married me. And I trust you, or I wouldn’t have asked. We wouldn’t be sharing this bed if we didn’t trust each other, and you know it. Name one other man you would sleep next to like this.”
“You wouldn’t either,” she says, sounding defensive.
When I hesitate, she pushes.
“Admit it,” she says.
“Yes,” I say finally, my voice grudging. “There’s no one else. Only you.”
And I’m just admitting that she’s the only one I could sleep next to like this, but it feels like I’m saying more than that. So I take a deep breath and move on.
“I promised Trev I would take care of you. And after he died…” I swallow, clear my throat. “Anyway, I want to do something good with this company. I need to do good things. And to do that, I have to inherit. So we just need to hold out long enough for Mavis to officially name me her heir. But during that time, you’ll be safe.”
Holland is silent for a second. “It wasn’t your fault,” she says then. “The crash, I mean.”
My brain, my body, my heart—they all still. “I know that,” I say after a moment spent locating my voice. It’s not entirely true.
“Then why are you trying to compensate?”
She’s speaking so matter-of-factly, so dispassionately, and some part of me knows that it’s because she’s never grieved properly, never let herself think about Trev, never fully processed his death. She’s just been running from that pain.
Aren’t you tired of running, Holl?
“I’m not compensating,” I say. “Or—maybe I am, I don’t know.” I pick through my thoughts, trying to decipher them enough to string together sentences. These are not things I ever talk about to anyone other than my therapist, and my words come out stilted and clipped. “I’m not seeking absolution, and I’m not trying to bring him back. I just…want to do good things. Isn’t that allowed?”
“Of course it is,” she says quietly.
“I’ll happily put a dead fish in your mailbox or insult you until I’m blue in the face, but I won’t actually let anything happen to you,” I say. “That’s my point, all right? Now go to sleep. First thing in the morning, we’re out of here.”
She’s silent for a moment; then she speaks. “Stop saying mushy stuff. It’s weird.”
My lips twitch, but I don’t answer.