Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
brODIE
“Are you watching me sleep?” Savannah’s voice has a husky edge.
“Yep.”
“Weirdo.”
“Yep.” I duck and kiss the end of her nose. “Can’t help it. You’re beautiful.”
She grins, twisting to face me. “What time is it?”
“Just after seven.”
“Why are you awake?”
“Have to go.”
“But it’s early. And cozy in here.” She stretches out her legs, soft and warm, wrapping them with mine.
“Exactly. Meaning there’s no way I’m getting any edits done if I stay. You’re too tempting. And I’m on a mission to deliver my final copy this afternoon.” I envelop her in my arms and she curls around me, once again her body fitting perfectly with mine.
I hold her tight and then keep holding. I can’t help it. She’s right, it’s cozy in here.
And today’s the day she meets with her dad.
However much I tell myself it will be okay, I’m definitely edgy.
She may not be reliant on him like she was in college, but he’s still the only parent she has left and she loves him.
It’s the real reason why she’s been hiding this whole time.
Not because she’s scared of him and what he’ll do or say, but because she doesn’t want to hurt him.
I, on the other hand, remain firmly in the land of the scared. I know what Aiden Archer can be like. I’ve seen a side I don’t think Savannah would even recognize. The cutthroat business side. Where he always gets his way. Meaning the aftershocks of today could be catastrophic.
“Okay, enough of the hugging. It’s way too hot in here.” Savannah digs her way out from under the comforter. “Go do your promotion-winning writing, Clark Kent. I need to get my head in the game for lunch anyway.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Actually, kinda good. Ready for it to be over with now.” She sits up with a smile, shaking her hair down her back. “We’re both going to slay the day, Brodie Holt.”
I press my lips to hers, teasing her mouth open with my tongue and then deepening the kiss further, my hand trailing over her cheek and down to her throat. “Fuck, I love kissing you.”
“And I love kissing you. But if you don’t stop and walk away, we both know you’re not getting any writing done.”
I groan and step from the bed. She giggles, her eyes on my boxers.
“See what you do to me? Every damn time.”
“I’ll message you later. After.”
“Want to come over to mine?”
“Maybe. Let’s see how things go first.”
“Sure.” Wrestling on my pants and tee, I linger over a final kiss to the top of her head. “Have I told you how much I love you?”
“Maybe once or twice.”
“Text me if you need a reminder.”
“You’re such a hopeless romantic.”
“Yep. Romantic and proud.” I share a wink and stroll from her room, a shit-eating grin plastered on my face.
I’m still grinning when I walk outside and continue to grin even when I notice the town car with dark tinted windows idling at the curb.
Admittedly there’s something odd about its sleek black paint job that doesn’t match the usual quirky West End vibe, but I shrug the thought away and head down the street with a spring in my step.
It’s around a block from Savannah’s when my smile wanes.
The black car’s following me.
Coming to an abrupt stop on the sidewalk, I eyeball the driver through the windshield.
He winds down the passenger window. “Mr. Holt?”
What the hell? My pulse vaults to life. “Who’s asking?”
“I was sent to collect you. I work for Mr. Archer. He’s inviting you to breakfast in his hotel suite.” The driver delivers the request like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Not remotely sinister or fucking terrifying.
“What?” The word squeaks out.
“Would you like to return to your apartment first, sir? For a change of clothes.”
I take in what I’m wearing. The same jeans and tee I grabbed from home the night before yesterday, relegated to a messy heap on the floor during Savannah’s yoga session. “Uh… I don’t understand.”
“I suggest we don’t keep Mr. Archer waiting too long. He usually breakfasts at eight.”
“What time is it now?” There are literally a million questions I should be asking, and that isn’t one of them.
“Seven forty-two precisely.”
“Where’s his hotel?” Again with the stupid questions.
“The Rosewood on Georgia.”
I’m walking to the car before I fully compute what my legs are doing. But I also don’t know what other options I have. Clearly Savannah’s dad is far more informed than either Savannah or I have given him credit for. And I know from experience that trying to outrun the man is nigh on impossible.
“Fuck it.” I mutter the words as I tug open the passenger door. He can take me as I am. I slide into the seat next to the driver.
The driver peers at me. He’s not scary-looking. In fact, he seems like a nice man. Mid-fifties. Probably has a family. “Most people sit in the back, sir.”
“Oh. Right.” Now I’ve sat, my legs have turned into lead weights.
“Not to worry. Your apartment then?”
“No. The hotel. I have a hunch it won’t matter to Mr. Archer if I’m wearing my day-old jeans or a designer suit.”
The driver nods and pulls the car smoothly away from the curb. We wind through the West End and out into the early-morning traffic on Robson, the silence made all the heavier by the luxury finish of the car’s plush leather seats and walnut veneer dash.
We’re around two blocks from the Rosewood, and stuck at a red light, when I manage to find my voice. “How long were you waiting for me?”
“Not long, sir. I arrived just after seven.”
I gnaw at the inside of my cheek. “How did you know where I was?”
“Lucky guess, sir.”
I can tell he’s not being honest. There’s way more that’s clearly gone on behind the scenes, but I’m not even sure if I want to know the details.
Hearing I’ve been tailed by a fucking PI for the past weeks—months?
years?—isn’t exactly going to make me feel better about my current predicament.
I draw my mouth into a resolute line and keep it shut.
Within minutes we’re pulling up outside the Rosewood.
“Mr. Archer’s suite is the penthouse.” The man hands me a gold room card. “This will allow you to access the elevator. All the best, sir.”
I offer my thanks, although I have no idea why I’m thanking the man for driving me to my execution, and exit the car. Five steps and I’m walking through the swish of the elegant hotel doors into an opulent lobby, all wood paneling and high-shine floor.
It feels like I’m suffocating in bubble wrap, blurring my reactions and dulling my senses.
Less than a half hour ago I was telling Aiden Archer’s daughter how much I love her before heading out to finish my edit.
An edit that’s due to earn me a promotion at one of his papers.
Now I’m not even sure how I’m managing to put one foot in front of the other.
Footsteps click against the tiles as someone approaches. “Can I help you, sir?”
I blink inanely at the man, his name badge indicating he’s the Rosewood’s general manager. He looks impeccable in a sharply cut charcoal suit. Why didn’t I grab a change of clothes from my apartment?
“Sir?”
I swallow the sting of acid creeping into my throat. “Sorry. I’m here to visit one of your guests. I was given this card to access the elevator. He’s staying in the penthouse.”
“Ah, you’re here to see Mr. Archer.”
I nod, the movement stiff.
“Right this way, sir.” The man guides me to the gold-embellished doors of an Art Deco elevator straight from the twenties, a clock face positioned over the top indicating the floor numbers. He pushes the call button. “Mr. Archer’s suite is on the twelfth floor.”
The elevator doors slide open and I step inside, thanking the man, and somehow managing to stay upright while I tap the gold card to the card reader and hit twelve.
It’s not until the doors close, trapping me in and suppressing my senses further, that I sag against the mirrored wall. Holy fucking shit.
I draw in a mouthful of air but it’s not nearly enough, my chest too tight as the numbers begin to steadily tick upward.
Two. Three. Four.
I gasp in another breath and try to talk some sense into my rapidly spiraling brain.
Five. Six.
Whatever’s about to happen, I’m not the kid I was when I last faced this man.
Seven.
It doesn’t matter what he already thinks he knows. Savannah and I are strong. Way stronger than we were back then. We can make it through.
Eight. Nine.
Even if he threatens my career. It doesn’t matter. Not as much as Savannah.
Ten.
I’ll change careers. Become an Uber driver. Or work in a bar. Or fight fucking fires.
Eleven.
I just have to breathe. Breathe, and back myself.
Twelve.
There’s a brief pause. Like the moment when a rollercoaster holds its victims hanging at the top before the biggest drop, and then the doors swoosh open with a ding.
I step into a thickly carpeted hallway, one door at the end.
It’s opened by a woman, fortyish, sleek black hair and a crisp cream suit. “Mr. Holt. It’s great you could visit. Mr. Archer’s finishing up some business. Come in. There’s a lovely view of the city.”