Chapter 40
Icarus
Alex
“Get away from the fucking creek, Alex.”
That voice, commanding and sharp, was nothing like the man who’d whispered “I love you” in the dark, nothing like Finn at all.
It was all wrong, like hearing a stranger speak through his mouth, but still his words struck a direct hit and my chest went cold, the sandbag suddenly heavy in my arms. When I looked up his face was wild with terror, his eyes wide and desperate.
But that tone, that voice like I was some subordinate who needed orders instead of a woman who owned and ran her own company.
Who was becoming friends with the other woman who had loved him first. Who’d been working beside his family for two hours after spending the last few weeks in his world.
How dare he treat me like some helpless incompetent that needed managing or punishing.
“No,” I stared at him, forcing the emotion from my features. I wouldn’t let him see how much he’d hurt me. He didn’t deserve it. Didn’t deserve me. “I’m working. This is important.”
I turned my back on him and picked up another sandbag.
Sand. Twist the neck three times. Carry it to the barrier. Set it down flush against the one Elowyn had placed. The weight felt good in my arms, forty pounds of something useful, something that mattered. Sand. Twist. Carry. Set. My pulse hammered against my throat, but my hands stayed steady.
Another bag. The rhythm took over.
“Alex—”
“Don’t,” I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t afford to. “Just don’t.”
“Damnit, Alex.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat, blinked away the stinging in my eyes, and kept working.
Behind me, I heard Luke’s voice, calm and firm, taking Finn away from the crisis he’d just created.
Away from me. Good.
I kept working.
“You okay?” Elowyn asked quietly as Lou handed me another empty bag. Both women watched me, concern etched clearly on their faces.
“I’m fine,” the lie came automatically, smooth as silk. I was always fine. Fine was my default setting, my armor, my survival mechanism. Fine left no room for emotion. Fine kept me in control of the things I couldn’t control. “How much more do we need to build this section?”
“Alex…” Lou swallowed. I looked at her finally. Her eyes were full of grief. Maybe she finally realized he wasn’t the person she’d fallen in love with when she was a teenager.
I shrugged before turning to Elowyn. “How much more?”
“Maybe another twenty bags should do it,” she studied my face for a moment, then nodded toward the rising water. “Creek’s starting to level off, I think. We might have caught it in time.”
Twenty more bags. I could do twenty more bags.
I filled twenty-three bags, each one twisted exactly three turns, placed flush against the others.
But every few minutes, I’d see Finn’s face again. The way he’d looked at me by the creek, like I was reckless and dangerous and needed containing.
“Get away from the fucking creek, Alex.”
Not a request. Not concern. An order.
I shoved it away and kept moving.
By the time we’d finished reinforcing the barrier, the rain had gentled to a steady drizzle and the creek had stopped rising. Twenty-seven sandbags in this section, each one placed exactly where it needed to be.
“Nice job, everyone,” Nolan said, appearing with coffee. “Alex, Lou, thank you for jumping in like that. Made all the difference having the extra hands.”
I accepted the coffee, all too happy to have it warming my numb fingers. “Happy to help.”
“You sure you’re okay?” He moved closer to me, his voice lowering.
“I’m fine,” I repeated. “Just tired.”
It wasn’t a lie. I was tired, but not just from physical labor.
The coffee was perfect, dark and strong, steam rising in the cool air. For once it didn’t make me feel like I was catching fire from the inside. Nolan’s hand found my shoulder, offering a brief squeeze.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of coordinated cleanup.
I helped pack up tools, assisted with moving supplies back to dry storage, and made myself useful in all the ways I could.
Nobody mentioned Finn, but I caught the sympathetic glances, and Bridget seemed worried, as if she’d seen a completely different side of her son. I had too.
We broke for a quick meal before finishing the day. I stayed until nearly dark, helping wherever they needed me. When there was nothing left to organize, nothing more to coordinate, nothing else to clean up, I ran out of reasons to stay away.
The walk back to our room felt impossibly long. On the way, my phone buzzed with a single text message, sent hours ago.
Finn: I’m sorry.
The words sat there on the screen, two words that felt completely inadequate.
I used my key card quietly, easing the door open to find the room dark except for the dim glow of the bedside lamp.
Everything had been reset to perfection.
Our fort, our refuge from the storm, had been dismantled, reduced to hotel pillows arranged just so.
The beds were made with perfect corners and our scattered belongings organized into neat stacks on the dresser.
I set my laptop bag next to his perfectly zipped and aligned backpack.
The housekeeper had been helpful. Thorough. They’d erased nearly every trace of the intimacy we’d been building. Still, my toothbrush remained next to his by the sink.
I stepped into the room more, my eyes moving over the only clutter in the space.
Finn’s dirty boots had been discarded near the closet, but I could see mud tracked into the room.
His hat, rain jacket, flannel shirt, under shirt, jeans…
socks... led a parade to our bed where Finn had collapsed face down on top of the bedspread in nothing but his underwear.
My heart stopped as I reached him. Here was my Icarus, fallen again, not from the sky this time, but from whatever emotional height he’d been trying to maintain.
Tears finally fell as I sat on the edge of the bed, brushing the hair from his face.
His features were slack with exhaustion, finally at peace after the storm he’d weathered today.
I ached to curl up next to him, to hold him, but I wasn’t sure this was my Finn anymore, the one who whispered “I love you” in pillow forts and taught me to fly.
I pulled a blanket from the closet and draped it over him carefully, worried the texture might irritate him, but more worried he’d get cold.
Next, I moved his legs so they were on the bed, followed by his hand draped over the side.
There was no way I’d be able to move him completely without waking him in order to share our bed. And I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to.
I picked up his clothes and placed them in our hamper before setting his hat on the dresser and moving his boots next to the door.
The housekeeper would have to clean again because of the mud, but that couldn’t be helped, even I had tracked some in.
I gathered my things and prepared for bed as silently as possible.
When I was ready, I looked between the two beds in our room.
The bed where Finn lay crashed and unreachable and the bed that had stayed empty for weeks, waiting. Crisp white sheets pulled tight at the corners, pillows perfectly fluffed and centered.
I pulled back the covers on the clean bed and slipped between sheets that smelled like hotel detergent instead of bergamot and cloves.
The space felt too big, too clean, too separate. But I stayed there anyway, staring at the ceiling in the dark as tears continued to leak from my eyes, listening to Finn breathe less than ten feet away.