Chapter 26
Phoenix
“Why aren’t you stressing about this?” Holland asks me three days later, her fingers drumming nervously on her thigh.
“Because depending on what Mavis has to say, things aren’t going to go her way,” I tell her, putting my hand over hers so the finger-drumming will stop. “Just calm down for now.”
She slaps my hand away. “Are you familiar with the Venn diagram of women who were told to calm down and women who subsequently did calm down? It’s something you should take a look at,” she says. “Let me be antsy. It relieves stress.”
“Could have fooled me,” I say under my breath, but I don’t attempt to calm her again. I just let her stew in her agitation, her foot bouncing nervously in the passenger seat of the golf cart, her hair blowing in the wind as we drive.
The whole island has been in chaos mode after the storm, but even though things aren’t completely back to normal yet—cell service is still spotty—the ferry is finally up and running.
Which means we’re headed over to the mainland to visit my dear grandmother.
Soon . Soon I won’t have to jump when Mavis tells me to; soon I won’t have to bow and scrape and live on the edge of my seat waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Wyatt and I have moved our timetable up, now that Mavis has questions about the validity of the marriage.
How did she get that contract?
Not just a copy, either; she has the original hard copy that was supposed to be in my file cabinet at home. The one in my work office was still in place—I checked after I got her message—but when we got home, the one at the house was gone.
Something simmering and hot rises in my chest, anger like lava, but I keep a check on it. We finish the drive in silence, and it’s only once we’ve boarded the ferry that Holland speaks again.
“Okay, so walk me through this,” she says, turning in her chair to look at me. Her nose and cheeks are pink from the wind and the persistent drizzle, a sheen of humidity on her skin. “What’s the worst that could happen here?”
“There’s nothing that could happen that I haven’t made provisions for,” I say truthfully. “But Mavis will likely object to our marriage and refuse to recognize it. I guess she could also disown me.”
Holland gapes at me, her eyes wide. “Would she actually?”
“What, disown me?” I say, pulling my phone out of my suit pocket. “Not likely. I’m the best candidate to inherit and she knows it. More than that, though, she likes having all of us under her thumb.” I shoot off a message to Wyatt, hoping it goes through, and then I tuck my phone away again.
When I look back at Holland—my wife , who’s so much more than I ever expected or hoped—her eyes are on me, a little grimace on her lips.
“What?” I say blankly .
She clears her throat and scoots closer to me. “So listen,” she says in a low voice that I can barely hear over the sound of the ferry’s horn. “You’re not going to like— off your grandmother or anything, right?”
“Of course not,” I say calmly. When she continues to look skeptically at me, I roll my eyes. “Would I do that?”
“Absolutely,” she says without missing a beat. “Under the right circumstances, you absolutely would.”
“Anybody could kill under the right circumstances,” I say. “You could too. But that’s not the point—I’m not going to off my grandmother.”
“You’re just really, really chill about this. So I’m concerned.”
“Maybe instead of being concerned, you could also try to be really, really chill,” I point out. “Not one week ago you were waxing poetic about how much you trust me?—”
“Shut up.”
I point at her. “And I remember something about my moral compass as well?—”
But I break off as she raises one hand toward my face as though to clamp it over my mouth.
“Try it and see what happens,” I say, a jolt of heat flashing through my veins as I remember doing the same thing the night of the storm.
She freezes in place as her eyes fly up to mine; then a slow, amused smile unfurls over her lips. “You can dish it, but you can’t take it?” she says softly, her eyes sparkling with laughter. Her hand shifts and comes to rest on my cheek, her thumb stroking my skin, and it’s bliss—it’s bliss feeling her touch without trying to convince myself I don’t enjoy every second or long for more.
Because I do. I do enjoy every second, and I long for more. She sets my blood on fire, in so many ways and with so many emotions. So when she tugs my face down and presses a soft kiss to my lips, I don’t fight, even though we’re in public.
“Doesn’t it feel weird, though?” she says, leaning back. “We never used to kiss, and now suddenly we’re doing it all the time?—”
“‘We never used to kiss’?” I say with a snort. I cover her hand with mine and then pull it away from my face, interlacing our fingers and resting them on my leg instead. “I would say we kissed an abnormal amount for two people who didn’t get along. In fact—” I break off, thinking.
How much we kissed each other should have been a clue.
I shake my head and sigh. “Anyway—you should be prepared. I don’t know what Mavis is going to say or do or threaten, but I might be making a lot of changes very soon. Very soon.”
“Do those changes involve sucker-punching your cousin in the gut?”
My lips twitch. “That could be arranged if you really insist.”
“I’m going to rest my head on your shoulder,” she says, scooting closer. “I want to see what it feels like.”
“I—” It’s all I can get out before she’s there, her hand still in mine, her head dropping gently on my shoulder.
“Oh—I like it,” she says, making herself more comfortable. “And I won’t insist on punching your cousin,” she goes on. “But he deserves it. They all do.”
I look down at her, at the blonde hair now spilling over my arm. “Are you not going to ask what my plans are?” I say with a little frown.
She shrugs but stays right where she is. “As long as you actually have a plan, I’m not worried.” She pauses and then glances up at me. “You do have a plan, right? ”
“I—of course.” I always have a plan. More than one, in fact.
Her head rests on my shoulder again. “Then it’s fine.”
Huh. She actually does trust me. I…like that.
I like that a surprising amount.
So with only slight hesitation, I rest my head on top of hers.
And I like that, too.
Wyatt meets us at the ferry stop with a change of outfit for both of us, since we’ve been out helping with clean-up all day and we only barely made the ferry.
“Wyatt,” Holland says as soon as he passes us our clothing and ushers us into his car. “Do you have a Mary Poppins bag full of all this stuff?”
“It would seem so, wouldn’t it?” he says dryly. “But really I’m just very good at being prepared.”
“You’re amazing. If you ever get annoyed at Phoenix, just come to me,” Holland says as she scoots into the back seat and buckles her seatbelt. “I’ll help you plot some good pranks. I’ve got one I’ve been dying to try that involves personalized stationery and a long mailing list.”
I narrow my eyes at her in the rearview mirror, but she just smiles sweetly.
Wyatt simply chuckles, the traitor. Then he says, “I assume you both made it through the storm with no problems.”
My gaze flies to the rearview mirror again, just in time to see a smile spread over Holland’s face—small but genuine and warm .
“We did,” she says. “How was it over here?”
“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” he says with a dip of his chin. Then he looks over at me and speaks in a lower, more serious voice. “I’ve changed our timeline like you asked. We’re still waiting on a few things, though.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “My guess is I’ll end up announcing today, but I don’t think it can be helped. Oh,” I add as I remember. “Let’s go through the home security footage later. Mavis got hold of our contract somehow. I think it was probably Clarence and Lawrence, but I’d like to be sure before I take action.”
Wyatt nods, a tight grimace pulling at his lips.
“And speaking of the contract,” I say, because there’s no point in putting this conversation off—even though Wyatt will get that knowing look in his eye when I admit that he was right and I was wrong. “I think we can terminate it. It won’t be necessary any longer.”
Wyatt’s graying eyebrows fly to his hairline, and he shoots a look at me before turning his eyes to the rearview mirror. “So you’re…” he says, trailing off like he doesn’t dare ask.
“My husband is in love with me,” Holland says in a bland voice. “And I find him tolerable enough to tempt me?—”
“Shut up,” I say, reaching blindly behind my seat and swatting her legs—except I have to force myself not to smile.
My assistant does no such thing. When I look over at him, he’s beaming—the biggest smile I think I’ve ever seen on him. Something unexpectedly warm and affectionate stirs in my chest, and I speak again.
“Thanks to you, in part,” I add to Wyatt, my voice grudging. I’m not good at expressing my emotions, but it should be said. “I appreciate your advice.”
And I swear his eyes actually get a little glassy .
By the time we reach the Butterfield building, though, he’s regained his composure, as stoic as ever. He drops us off at the entrance to the headquarters—twenty-three stories high—and we pass through the rotating doors. The lobby is nearly empty, thankfully; Holland and I take the elevator up to the employee lounge, where I direct her to the women’s changing room.
“This is so nice,” she says as she looks around, her eyes wide. “There’s exercise equipment over there.” She moves to stand closer to me, though, when she sees the people staring—two guys over at the coffee station, three women eating at a small table. Most of the employees know who I am, even vaguely, and a decent amount probably also know that I don’t work in this building anymore.
My guess, though, is that they’re more interested in the way Holland’s fingers are intertwined with mine. She seems to be a hand-holder, and I can’t say I hate it.
“Don’t get too used to it,” I tell her, pulling my hand away. “Now go change. Meet me back here. You have five minutes.”
“I have however long I need,” she says, rolling her eyes at me. “And you’re not going to spontaneously combust if you go too long without bossing someone around. Take a deep breath and fight the urge.” Then, before I can respond to her snark, she’s gone, disappearing through the door to the locker room.
I shake my head and go into the men’s room, debating before I finally decide to take a lightning-fast shower. I feel significantly better after I do, and I make it out of the changing room about ten minutes before Holland appears, also freshly showered.
Office clothing isn’t her natural style, but there’s something incredibly appealing about the way she wears it; the buttoned-down shirt, the slim-fitting skirt, the heels she probably hates.
Amazing that I can notice these things now instead of pointedly ignoring them.
“Pencil skirts are the worst,” she says with a frown on her face as I approach her. “And so are pantyhose. I need to tell Wyatt that.”
“I’m sure he’d love to know,” I say. “Let’s go.”
“And the heels—I can walk in them, I guess, but they’re just uncomfortable. It feels like my foot is contorting into unnatural shapes.”
“Well, you look great,” I say dryly.
“Do I?” she says, looking startled.
“Yep.” I don’t feel the need to deny it—not now. “Something about the buttoned-up look.”
“Huh,” she says. “Like the sexy librarian thing, kind of?”
Good grief. “I can’t talk about this with you right now,” I mutter. “Come on.”
Her heels click-click-click on the floor as we return to the elevators, the ding! echoing quietly through the hall. I pull out my employee badge when we get in and scan it before pressing the button for the twenty-third floor.
It still works, which is something, at least. We’ll see how long that lasts.
“You should know,” I tell her as the elevator begins its ascension, “that I might become very rude up here.”
She lets out a loud, theatrical gasp. “You? Rude? Never. ”
“Believe it or not,” I say, a smirk tugging at my lips, “I’ve never treated you scathingly.”
“I know,” she says, sounding exasperated now. “You don’t need to warn me. I’m prepared, PheePhee.”
My head whips toward her so violently that my neck muscles protest. “Excuse me? ”
“You said I could call you whatever I want, didn’t you?”
I turn my body to face her and advance slowly, stepping closer and closer as she backs up until finally she bumps into the elevator wall.
“I did say that,” I tell her in a low voice, “but I spoke under the assumption that you wouldn’t abuse my permission.” I’ve put up with a variety of bird names, but I draw the line at PheePhee.
“Fine,” she says as her eyes sparkle up at me. She wraps her arms around my waist and tilts her head up and to the side; because of her heels, this puts her lips right at my ear. “How do you feel about being called Husband? ” she whispers.
“Much better,” I say as my hands come to rest on her shoulders. Then I let them trail up her neck until they cradle her face. I allow myself to indulge in one display of workplace PDA, pressing my lips softly to hers.
“Should we make out in this elevator?” she says when I lean back again.
Yes. Immediately .
“Probably not,” I say with a sigh. “Cameras”—I jerk my chin at the small blinking light in one corner— “and professionalism in general.”
“I bet they’d love to watch,” she says, turning her gaze to the camera.
“I have no doubt,” I say, my lips twitching again. “But it’s still a bad idea.”
“Fine,” she says, but she’s smiling too.
When the elevator eases to a stop and the doors open, however, her smile fades as quickly as mine does.
“We’re here,” I say as I reach for her hand. Then I grimace and offer one last piece of advice before we get out: “Be ready. Things might get uncomfortable.”