Chapter 30
Reed
It’s my first day back after spending four blissful, incredible days on the island, and I’m having trouble adjusting. It was hard enough to focus on work before I took that vacation with Olivia. Now, in its aftermath, I feel as though my brain is full of static.
I’ve been in the office for two hours, but it feels like it’s been at least six. Or maybe it’s been five minutes, based on the amount of work I’ve actually managed to get done.
No matter what I do, I can’t drag myself out of the memories of my time with Olivia at the villa.
The entire getaway keeps replaying on a loop in my mind.
The sex, obviously, is a major distraction, but I can’t stop thinking about the conversations either.
The way she smiled, her face lit by the light from the pool.
The way she looked at me, when I told her the truth about my married ex.
I was worried that she would judge me, but instead, she just reassured me. She, unlike the rest of the world, seems entirely willing to consider my past just that: the past.
Since that moment, I’ve felt like I was walking on air. Like a weight has been lifted off of my shoulders.
A text from my assistant startles me out of my reverie, a reminder for my ten o’clock meeting. Of course. This one’s important too. I can’t afford to miss it. It’s with a few shareholders from another hotel chain who are interested in a potential merger.
This sort of meeting is usually the purview of a CEO, but I promised the board that I would handle it myself, so I really can’t afford to fuck this up.
I gather my things, tucking a laptop under one arm to take notes during the meeting, and leave my office. The meeting is taking place a few floors down. As I cross the floor to the elevator, I look over at my father’s office and catch his eye through the glass window beside his door.
When I arrive at the conference room, the shareholders are already there, sipping from Styrofoam cups of coffee. They look up as I enter and take my place at the head of the table.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” I say, folding my hands together and leaning forward. “How are we doing today?”
There’s a chorus of greetings from the group.
“Let’s get down to business, shall we?” I offer them all a winning smile, which a few of them return. These types of people don’t care to beat around the bush. They’re here for one reason, and one reason only.
“Sounds great,” says one of the shareholders, an older man with salt-and-pepper hair. “We were looking at the numbers from your California locations, and we noticed that—”
Before he can finish his sentence, the door to the conference room swings open. I swivel in my chair, surprised and more than a little annoyed. Everyone at this company knows better than to interrupt a meeting once it’s underway.
Especially my assistant, who stands in the doorway nervously, her hands wrung together. She’s not the type to barge into a conference room—she knows that this particular meeting is of utmost importance, too.
“Marjorie,” I say, doing my best to keep my annoyance at the interruption out of my voice.
I’ve been distracted lately, and I feel the need to work extra hard to make up for it, but I still don’t want to inadvertently snap at my staff.
“Do you need something? We have a meeting in progress, here, so—”
“Yes, sir,” Marjorie says nervously. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I just received a phone call for you, and figured you wouldn’t want this news delayed.”
Something in her tone gives me pause. She seems distressed. I glance at the shareholders, some of whom are fidgeting restlessly in their seats, then back to Marjorie. “What is it?”
“It’s Olivia, sir,” she says. “She’s been in a car accident.”
Immediately, my blood runs cold, as if ice water has been injected into my veins. I stand up abruptly, bracing my hands on the table.
My only coherent thought is I need to get to her.
“Where is she?”
“She’s at the hospital. I thought you might want to—”
“Call a car for me,” I demand, pacing to the door. “I’m going there.”
Before I leave the room, I glance over my shoulder at the shareholders, an ounce of professionalism returning to me even though this meeting—and all of the people in this room—are the last things on my mind.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” I say, my voice clipped. “I need to make sure my fiancé is okay.”
There’s a chorus of murmurs from the assembled people, but I don’t bother to stick around. I’m out of the door in the blink of an eye, heading for the elevator and the waiting car outside.
My heart is in my throat as my driver takes me through the city, toward the hospital. The panic is an uncomfortable feeling. All I can do is be simultaneously annoyed at my driver for going so slowly, and glad I’m not the one behind the wheel—I would be too reckless right now.
Marjorie didn’t say anything about Olivia’s condition. What if she’s hurt? What if she’s unresponsive when I arrive? What if—
As soon as the car pulls up under the hospital’s awning, I bolt outside and into the lobby. The receptionist at the front desk points me in the direction of Olivia’s hospital room—apparently, she’s out of the ER where the paramedics originally brought her, which must be a good sign.
I can feel my pulse pounding in my temples as I enter Olivia’s room. The lights are turned off, with only the natural light of the afternoon streaming through the curtains.
Olivia is lying in the bed, a blanket pulled up over her shoulders. She looks so fragile, surrounded by the sterile white sheets, that a wave of protectiveness rushes through me.
Quietly, I make my way across the room and sit down in the chair by her bedside, reaching out to take her hand. She seems to be asleep at first, but as soon as my fingers brush hers, her eyes flicker open.
“Hey,” she says softly.
“Hey,” I respond. “Are you okay?”
She nods, though the movement is a little stiff, and a wave of relief crashes over me. “I’m fine,” she murmurs. “Just a little bruised. The road was a bit icy, and we got into a minor fender bender. Nothing too serious.”
For a few moments, I’m unable to respond. I feel overwhelmed by the sudden sense of gratitude that she’s okay.
It could’ve been so much worse.
I could’ve lost her. And I realize, in this moment, that I can’t bear the thought of losing her. She means far too much to me.
After a couple of seconds, I manage to say, “Well, I’m glad it wasn’t worse.”
“Me, too.”
“Where does it hurt?”
Gingerly, she reaches a hand to her collarbone. “Bruised a little bit here from the seatbelt. And I have a little bit of a headache, but the doctor said there wasn’t a concussion.”
“That’s good,” I say. I’m overcome by the urge to hold her, and have to settle for bending down and planting a gentle kiss on the back of her hand.
“The doctor said he would come by again soon,” she continues. “They told me that I can go home today—they don’t need to keep me overnight.”
“That’s also good. I can take you home,” I offer.
“Don’t you need to get back to work?” She frowns, a tiny crease appearing between her eyes. “I thought you had a meeting this afternoon.”
“It’s fine. Taking care of you is more important.”
“Reed—”
“Seriously, it’s alright.”
She stares at me for a moment, her lower lip quivering, then nods. “Okay. If you insist.”
“What happened?” I ask. “Was it my driver?” My hands tighten into fists at the thought. “Do I need to—”
“No, no, it wasn’t his fault,” she says quickly. “The weather was bad this morning, and we hit a patch of black ice. It could have happened to anyone—it was no big deal.”
“But you ended up in the hospital,” I protest. “That’s a big deal.”
“Nobody was seriously hurt. We didn’t—”
The door to her room opens, interrupting her, and a woman in a white coat and dark, curly hair steps in, a tablet tucked under one arm. She smiles at the two of us as she enters.
“I take it you’d like me to leave the lights off?” she asks Olivia.
“Please.” Olivia smiles thinly. “My head still hurts a little.”
“Okay. I have your discharge papers and care instructions right here,” the doctor says. She turns to me. “Are you with Miss Quinn today?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m her fiancé. I’ll be bringing her home.”
I don’t miss the startled look Olivia gives me, but I keep my attention on the doctor.
“She’s going to be just fine,” the doctor tells me.
“Here’s the discharge instructions. She needs to rest for the next few days.
Keep an eye on any continued headaches or nausea, and come back if they persist for more than forty-eight hours.
You should be feeling normal by tomorrow, but we need to make sure you don’t have a concussion. ”
Olivia nods, and I reach out to take the pages from the doctor, scanning the list of instructions myself—and committing them to memory.
“Are there any medications she needs to take?”
“We haven’t prescribed anything,” says the doctor, “but she may want to take a full dose of ibuprofen as needed, just to numb the pain of the bruising.”
“Sounds good.” I shake the doctor’s hand, and she gives each of us a warm smile.
“I’ll send a nurse in with a wheelchair to take you to your car.”
As she leaves, Olivia says, “Wait—did you leave work to come here? I thought you had a meeting today. Please tell me you didn’t skip it.”
“I didn’t skip it,” I say, which is at least partially true. “Don’t worry. It’s more important for me to be here right now, and if anyone at work has a problem with that, they’ll have to take it up with me tomorrow.”
A few minutes later, a nurse arrives in the room, pushing a plastic wheelchair. She turns to me. “Are you her husband?”
For a brief instant, I’m frozen in place by the question. It catches me off-guard, and I open my mouth, unsure how to respond.
Olivia seems to notice my hesitation, and rushes to my aid. “Not yet,” she says, smiling brightly. “We’re engaged, though.”
“Congratulations,” the nurse says with a nod. “Let’s get you home, shall we?”
As I wheel Olivia through the halls of the hospital, I’m overwhelmed with a sense of dismay. I do my best to hide it from her, but I know she can tell something’s off—she’s gotten to know me well enough by now to be in tune with my body language.
That nurse assumed I was her husband. She assumed we were together. And now, all I can think of is the fact that she was dead wrong.
The fact that Olivia lied to cover our tracks, too. That I’m not her fiancé. That this entire engagement is fake, just a performance we’re putting on for the rest of the world.
It’s a disappointing truth, and it sits in the pit of my stomach, mingling with the relief I felt when I realized that she wasn’t badly hurt in the crash.
If I’m being honest with myself… this doesn’t feel fake to me anymore. It hasn’t felt that way for a long time. I don’t want her to be lying when she tells people we’re going to be married soon. I don’t want people to be wrong when they assume we’re together.
Outside, I help Olivia into the backseat of one of my SUVs. Her movements are stiff and uncomfortable, and now that the sheets are no longer covering her arms, I can see the bruises, blooming black and purple.
A flash of protectiveness goes through me. It’s terrible to see her in pain.
After we arrive back at The Luxe, I can’t help but hover nearby as she settles onto the couch.
“It’s really fine,” she insists, propping herself up on a pile of pillows. “You can go back to the office.”
“No. I’m sticking around. Do you need anything?”
“I already told you.” There’s an exasperated fondness in her voice. “I’m good. Really. You can relax. I’m just going to be sitting here and knitting all day.”
“And I’m going to be here, ready to get you anything you need.”
She tilts her head to the side, considering me for a second, then sighs. “Okay. Well… if you wouldn’t mind, I guess I could use my knitting supplies.”
“Say no more.” I cross the apartment to her room, where she’s left her yarn and needles on her bed. On the way back, I stop in the kitchen to get her a glass of water, and set the kettle to boil, for good measure—I’ll make her a cup of peppermint tea.
When I return, she’s already shaking her head, her lips pursed. “You really don’t have to—”
“But I’m going to,” I interrupt. “No way around it.” I hand her the knitting supplies, and after a few moments, she reluctantly smiles. As she does, she blushes, her gaze falling away from my eyes to land on the half-formed sweater in her hands.
Again, I feel that tightness in my chest, like she has my heartstrings wound around those needles instead of yarn. I watch her as she gets to work. Her movements are slower than usual, probably because of the bruising in her shoulder, but she still makes it look easy.
I head back into the kitchen and root around in the drawers until I find a bottle of ibuprofen, then return to the living room and wordlessly hand her two pills. She gives me a grateful smile and takes them.
“Anything else you need, just tell me,” I say. “I’ll be right here.”
I stay on the couch beside her for the rest of the day, getting up and down as needed to grab her food, drinks, and pain meds. Late in the afternoon, she drifts off to sleep, her knitting still lying on her lap.
Gently, so as not to wake her, I move the unfinished sweater to the coffee table. I find a throw blanket on the back of the couch and tuck it over her shoulders, being careful not to disturb her injuries.
I sit in the armchair opposite her, watching her sleep, thinking back to the way I felt as we left the hospital.
It’s time to admit it—I don’t want this thing between us to be fake. I don’t want it to be a lie. It doesn’t feel like a lie to me when I say it. When I reach for her hand in public, I’m following my instincts, not the PR team’s instructions.
But I have no idea what to do about that.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I have some idea what to do about that. I have the power to make this real. I can tell that I’m not the only one who’s been feeling this way; the way her face flushes, the way she can’t always meet my gaze, is a dead giveaway.
I’ve played this game long enough to know, without a doubt, when a woman is into me.
And that, right there, is my biggest problem.
If I was to make things real with her, I would need to be real with her. I would need to be genuine, and forthright, and committed.
I’ve never been much of a long-term boyfriend. Most of my relationships last for less than twenty-four hours. It’s never been my goal to capture hearts, but I know that when I do, I inevitably break them.
That’s the last thing I want. I can’t break her heart, but at the same time, I’m not sure I can trust myself to protect it.
Until I can be certain—until I know that I won’t hurt her—I’m not sure I have the guts to do this. It would take a leap of faith to make this real, and for the first time in my life, I don’t have enough confidence in myself to take it.