Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
brOOKS
I’m acutely aware of time inching by as I sit through my normal slew of Monday meetings.
They all feel unnecessary, but my assistant is really good at making sure I’m only at the ones I need to be at.
Decisions need to be made, connections need to be fostered.
But most of my brain—no, my heart—is at my apartment.
What happens when you leave again?
“That’s all I have,” Dan, my COO, says. “Do you have anything for me?”
I wrench my brain to the present, work my way through my list with Dan. “Any word on the buyout?” I ask as he starts packing up.
There was an attempt a few weeks back—another company trying to short our stock so they can come in and buy us out and take over.
It’s a cowardly way to do business.
But it’s not the first buyout effort I’ve thwarted.
If I sell—and I’d be hard-pressed to part with a business I built from the ground up, especially one that does work that is valuable and helps a lot of people—it won’t be because I’m pressured into it.
“The rumors are swirling again.”
“If they materialize into something concrete, let me know.”
He nods, we exchange goodbyes, and I call Pascal, telling him about the rumors and the previous attempt at a buyout.
It may not be connected since I’ve fended off far too many of those.
But there’s a niggling in the back of my brain that tells me these are all pieces of the same puzzle.
The drive, the buyouts, the sudden reappearance of Briar back in my life.
“Too much of a coincidence,” I mutter.
“I agree,” he says, and I expect him to hang up now that business is concluded. He’s a busy man and always working on a dozen things at once. But today he lingers on the line. “When are you heading home?”
“Why?” I ask, alarm slicing through me. “Do I need—”
“She’s fine,” he says.
I exhale. “Then—” I break off.
He doesn’t reply for several moments. Then he sighs. “I can’t believe I’m about to do this shit.”
“What shit?”
“Meddle,” he mutters.
“I mean,” I say as I recline back in my chair, “isn’t that kind of your job?”
“I only meddle when it comes to personal safety,” he grumbles. “Not with…”
“What?” I press.
“Not with shit that gets me involved in messy romantic situations.”
I snort. Because I know that for the lie it is. Pascal has meddled with businessmen and hockey players and CEOs and stubborn fucks who refuse to get their heads on straight, alike.
“Just lay it on me so we can move on,” I grind out.
“Briar needs a trauma therapist. And she needs space.” A beat. “From you.”
That smashes into me with all the gentleness of a train barreling down the tracks. “I told her I wouldn’t walk away—not ever again.”
And I won’t.
We’ve hardly begun to fix what’s wrong between us, but I can at least give her that much.
He sighs again, the sound rattling through the phone’s speaker. “You’re not seeing her clearly.”
“I’m not seeing that she’s been through hell and survived far too much?” I growl. “I fucking see it. I fucking hate it. But I also know she’s been alone far too much in her life. She needs people around her, needs to know she’s part of something, that people will have her back.”
“With all due respect, she doesn’t know anyone.”
“She knows you.”
“Barely.”
“And Jace.”
“And where were we when she was going through hell?”
“That’s not on you guys.”
A pause. “Maybe you’re right,” he says quietly. “Because it’s on you.”
Another collision, another truth slamming into me.
“Yes, it is.” I force myself to take a deep breath.
“And I’m glad that as fucked up as the last five years have been, you’re still looking out for her, still trying to do what’s best for her.
I appreciate that. She needs that. But with all due respect, the last time I listened to you, I lost her for half a decade. ”
He lets the silence sit between us for long enough that a bolt of pain shoots through my jaw, it’s ground together so tightly.
“Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll pass on information for trauma therapists. Make sure she sees one.”
I open my mouth to reply, but he’s already hung up.
“Christ,” I mutter, scrubbing my hands over my face.
But even as I’m sitting in that, I hear the chime on my computer, know that my next call has started.
And again I’m supposed to somehow focus on work—in this case on earnings reports and where to put our R&D dollars—when the woman I love is hurting.
In danger.
With nothing resolved between us.
When a man I respect says I should stay away from her.
“Fuck,” I whisper, but when there’s a knock on the door and my assistant, Todd, pops his head in, I nod. “I’m hopping on.”
He nods, disappears just as quickly.
As promised, I join the call.
I do it listening more than talking.
And when I do talk it’s on topic and it’s effective…even though half my brain is still thinking about Pascal’s words.
The thought lingers as I trudge my way through the rest of my calls and on the drive home.
It nips at my heels as I take the elevator up, unlock the front door, all under the watchful eyes of Pascal’s security team—most of whom I can’t see, but can feel watching me.
Nape prickling, I push inside, still fighting with Pascal’s words and the need tearing through me.
And the worry that he may be right.
That in order to save her, I may have to destroy any chance we have of a future together.
A future that, in a single glimpse of my living room, is laid out in front of me.