by Nikki Sloane
“Today was . . . difficult.” And it wasn’t over either.
His expression softened, reminding me of his mother’s sympathetic one. “Royce mentioned you and Sophia are . . . friends.”
I understood what he meant. “Yes.”
He opened his mouth to say more, but a woman in hospital attire approached. “Mr. Hale?”
Both of us turned, and she hesitated. Her gaze bounced from me to my son, unsure which of us to address.
She gave up trying to figure it out. “Come on back.”
He turned to me and sounded unsteady. “Want me to come with you?”
I appreciated the offer. “No. Thank you.”
He nodded. “If you get a chance, tell us how she’s doing. I’m sure Marist will want to know too.”
After he left, I told the woman I’d like to change first, and she led me to a private restroom.
“When you’re finished,” she said, “she’s in room four. It’s just down there.” She pointed to the hallway leading away from the nurses’ station, and then she left me to it.
When I emerged in the new clothes, I felt marginally more composed, but still not myself. I longed for my cold indifference, the emotionless state I typically operated in. It’d make the impending conversation easier.
“Come in,” Sophia called when I knocked on the door.
She sat angled up on a bed that looked too much like a gurney to likely provide comfort. She had on a pale blue hospital gown, a thick white blanket pulled up and tucked beneath her arms. Her long hair was wavy and wild, her pale face devoid of any makeup, and although she was still beautiful, it made her look impossibly young.
When she saw me, her brilliant smile burst on her face, lighting up the entire room. I hadn’t seen anyone ever look at me like that before, as if I were the center of their universe, and presented with this evidence, I couldn’t deny it any longer.
Sophia Alby was absolutely in love with me.
Something deep inside me warmed and came alive, but I suspected it was merely my pride responding, enjoying her affection. At least, that’s all I hoped it was.
“My hero,” she said, both teasing and serious, her eyes going glassy with tears, but she blinked them back. She lifted an arm to reach out for me, but then slowed and grimaced, pressing her other hand to the center of her chest for support.
“Don’t.” I wasn’t sure if I meant for her not to move, or for her not to label me a hero.
She waved her fingers to encourage. “Come here.”
Although my desire to go to her was strong, I stayed in place and forced my gaze to sweep the narrow room. My hatred for hospitals ran deep. With the exceptions of the births of my sons, I always lost here. My parents. My wife. My chance with Marist.
And now I’d lose whatever it was I had with Sophia.
“I left a message with your parents,” I said, pretending to study the signage about proper handwashing posted over the sink. “I couldn’t reach them.”
“They’re in Fiji for their anniversary.” She was impatient. “Macalister, please.”
I set my attention on her, not able to avoid it any longer. “I think it’s better if we maintain some distance right now.”
Chagrin took hold in her. “And why’s that? You didn’t want distance when we were on the boat. You didn’t have a problem with it in the ambulance.”
She’d curled her hand around mine as we’d sped through the streets of Cape Hill and on to Port Cove. I’d allowed her to twine our hands together, wanting to maintain our connection just as fiercely as she did. Or perhaps more.
I raked my fingers through my hair, destroying the work I’d done in the restroom to make it lay flat. “I have gained some perspective since then.”
“Yeah? Well, I don’t care about your perspective right now. You saved my life, Macalister. Come here and let me thank you for it.”
“I didn’t save your life.” I sighed with frustration. “It’s not heroic for a man to rescue someone from a burning building when he’s the one who started the fire.”
She stared at me unblinking as she digested what I’d just said, before lifting her gaze to the ceiling. “Oh, my God, this is the curse thing?”
I swallowed thickly. “You stopped breathing. You nearly died.”
She shook her head. “For such a smart man, you’re being really fucking stupid.”
Anger flooded through me, and I charged forward, not realizing she’d baited me until it was too late. It put me within striking distance, and she snagged my hand in hers.
Months ago, my touch had disabled her, but now I found myself in the opposite position. Her warm hand squeezed my fingers, and I felt lost. Adrift with nothing to hold on to but her.
“Listen to me,” she pleaded. “You’re not cursed.”
I frowned and stared at the identification band wrapped around her wrist. “You shouldn’t have been on the yacht. I pushed for that, even when you didn’t want to.”
“Oh, I wanted to, believe me.” She peered up at me with longing. “If I hadn’t gotten sick, tell me we wouldn’t still be out there right now, in your bed, finding out if I could stay quiet.”
She wasn’t wrong, and I drew in a breath, letting it fill my lungs.
“Things happen,” she said. “And sometimes those things can’t be controlled, even by you.” She let go of my hand, only so she could grab a fistful of my sweater covering my chest and pull me down to her, bringing our faces level. “I know you want to, but you can’t control everything.”
On some level, I understood what she was saying. I hadn’t been able to force Marist to love me, or Alice to stop loving me. Even now, I couldn’t control the feelings developing for Sophia, no matter how hard I fought against them.
She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to mine as her hand slipped behind the back of my neck. Her skin was as warm and soft as her voice. “Thank you for saving me.”
It was unclear who initiated the kiss, but once my lips were on hers, I took command, and the emotions I’d struggled to keep at bay poured through me. She sank back in the bed, letting me taste her longing and her eagerness at the passion I finally permitted to flow between us.
I’d put my mouth on her earlier to bring her back to life, but this time it was more powerful. I kissed her as if I loved her. Slow, and deep, and I lingered when it was over.
I asked it in a hush against her lips. “Are you all right?”
“I’ll be fine.” She tried to kiss me again, but I held back.
“You’ll ‘be fine’ implies that you are not.”
She strived for a joking tone, but it was forced. “It’s one rib, no big deal. I have, like, a bunch more.”
“Jesus.” I straightened, setting my hands on the railing at the side of her bed.
“It doesn’t hurt that bad, and they gave me something for it. It really only bothers me when I move.”
“And breathe,” I added.
Her mouth skewed to one side. She looked like she wanted to shrug but stopped herself just in time. “I’m happy it hurts to breathe because that means I’m still alive, and that’s thanks to you.” She put her hand on top of one of mine. “Got to be honest, though. There’s no fucking way you’ll ever get me on your yacht again.”
When I nodded, her eyebrows pulled together.
“What?” she demanded. “You’re not going to scold me about my language?”
“No. It is appropriate today.”
She made a sound of approval. “Yeah, I suppose that’s true.” Her blue eyes scoured over me and filled with worry. “Are you okay?”
I could only imagine what I looked like. My reflection in the mirror of the restroom when I’d changed showed me that exhaustion had set in. The brief amount of sleep I’d gotten in the waiting room had been uncomfortable and restless and done nothing to help.
“I could use a shower,” I admitted.
“You and me both.”
It came from me without considering the co
nsequences. “Come home with me.”
I watched excitement form in her eyes, but they slowly darkened with disappointment. “Thanks, but my aunt is driving up from Providence right now to help me. Not sure how I would explain I want to spend the night with my boss.”
I felt both letdown and relief. I wanted her near, but nurturing wasn’t in my wheelhouse. “I understand.”
Sophia tried to disguise her hope. “Will you stay until she gets here?”
Although I was tired and hated hospitals, I’d stay with her as long as possible. There wasn’t anywhere else to be but here with her.
“Of course.”
The belt on my treadmill began to make a noise I didn’t like, a mechanical whine that grew in intensity at faster speeds. I made a note in my phone to text Elliot, the head of my household staff, about it later today. It was one in the morning, and if he received a text from me now, he’d assume it was urgent.
Since my phone was already in hand, I opened Instagram and went to Sophia’s account. It’d been four days since I’d revived her on the deck of my yacht, and four days since I’d seen her in person. She’d sent me pictures, though. One of them included the horrific bruise on her arm from where the boom had struck her, but she promised it looked worse than it was.
I admired how tough she seemed to be. We spoke via text throughout the day, and she never complained. She was eager to come back to the office, and I was eager for that as well. Not only was her working remotely a challenge, but I missed her.
Her Instagram post had surpassed one hundred thousand likes.
She’d taken the image from her hospital bed. The foreground was her ID braceleted wrist on top of the covers, her feet two lumps beneath the blanket, and in the background, a man slightly out of focus. He sat on a chair, looking down at the floor as if deep in thought, with a hand on the back of his neck.
Her caption told the story of our working lunch gone wrong and how her boss had resuscitated her. She made me out to be the hero of Cape Hill.
I’d been hounded at the office incessantly to retell the story, though I didn’t want to. My employees thought I was downplaying it to be humble, but the truth was I didn’t enjoy thinking about it.
The image of the boom hitting her.
Her floating face-down in the water.
The way her rib had cracked beneath my hands. Did she think of me every time her chest ached? With every breath?
She wasn’t in her post today, which was disappointing. I’d have to wait for new pictures of her in the morning. Her post this afternoon was a video from her bedroom. She panned the camera around, showing off the ‘get well’ flower arrangements dotting every available flat surface. There were flowers from her friends, from the rest of the executive assistants on our floor at HBHC, and even the owners of the gun range where she practiced. It’d be awhile before she could resume that activity.
Her ‘favorite’ gift, she’d declared, sat in the window seat. The large glass bowl was full of stones, moss, and succulents, and three green stems rose out of it, supporting the magenta orchids that bloomed from them.
I smiled in victory.
When the video looped back to the beginning, I closed the app and set my phone down, cranking up the speed on the treadmill, and ignored the troublesome sound. There were no flowers from Damon Lynch. No card, or phone call, or even a text message. I felt confident she would have told me if there had been.
His daughter had almost died, and he couldn’t be fucking bothered to so much as reach out.
My feet pounded on the treadmill while thoughts did the same in my mind. I wasn’t one to second-guess myself, but the plan I had drafted wasn’t responsive enough. I needed to revise and adapt.
My phone chirped with a text.
Sophia: You up?
Me: Yes.
When my phone rang, I punched the ‘stop’ button on the treadmill’s console, but my breathing kept its quick tempo. She wouldn’t call unless it was urgent.
“What’s wrong?” was the greeting I gave her.
She sounded panicked. “Natasha sent me the page proofs of DuBois’s book this morning, and I just finished reading it.”
Everything went cold and still. This book could save or destroy me.
“Well?” I asked. “How bad is it?”
My stomach turned at her pause, but then she was there. “It’s not bad for you, Macalister, or your family. I don’t think there’s anything in there that isn’t already online.”
I let out a tight breath, feeling like I’d just shrugged a hundred pounds of weight off my shoulders. “Then what is the issue?”
“He doesn’t say Damon’s my father.” I could picture her stricken face on the other end of the phone. “He doesn’t fucking mention me at all.”
My quiet word filled my empty gym. “Oh.”
“Oh?” she repeated with confusion. “You have to do something. Call DuBois and ask him why he—”
“It’s late.” I grabbed a towel from the stack and wiped my face. “We should talk about this in the morning.”
The line went deathly silent, and I slowed my movements. Was she still there? The screen said we were still connected.
Her voice was colder than I would have thought she was capable of. “I just told you the thing I’ve been working on for the last five months didn’t happen. Why the fuck are you so calm right now?”
“Sophia—”
“Because you got what you wanted,” she said, answering her own question. “That’s what matters to you.” I opened my mouth to defend myself, but she gasped with realization. “Oh, my God. Tell me you didn’t know.”
I closed my eyes, wishing we could have done this as I’d originally planned.
My silence was all the answer she needed.
“How?” she cried. “How’d you know it wasn’t in the book?”
I lifted my chest as if bracing for impact. “Because I didn’t tell him.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
MACALISTER
SOPHIA MADE A SOUND OF PAIN, and it was utterly my fault. Not only had I shocked her, but she’d moved as a result, and that jolt had hurt her fractured rib.
“What?” she shrieked.
I tossed my towel angrily into the bin. “I don’t want to do this over the phone.” It’d been years since I’d driven a car, but it’d be faster than waking my driver. “You’ll give me ten minutes and I’ll come to you.”
“No, we’re doing this right now. What the fuck, Macalister?”
I paced a circuit in the room. “I planned to discuss this with you.”
“Yeah? When?” she demanded. “When the fucking book came out?”
“This past weekend, on my yacht.” With everything that had happened, I’d pushed my plan back a week.
“Oh, I see,” she snarled. “Were you going to do it before or after you’d fucked me?”
Hearing all the profanity and how upset she was caused it to bleed over onto me, and I gave her the brutal truth. “During.”
I was a Hale, which meant it was win at all costs. I didn’t fight fair, and I knew she’d be more agreeable to my plan if she was intoxicated with pleasure. I would have fed it to her in pieces, information layered between orgasms.
“Oh, my God,” she gasped in horror.
“DuBois’s book is not the right vehicle,” I reasoned. “And the timing is not ideal.”
I could hear her heavy gasps for breath, and I had the terrible suspicion her face was wet with tears. I had to push the image from my mind and get through the rest of it. Once it was over, then I could assess how bad the damage was and what I’d need to do to address it.
“I know you wanted this,” I said, “but I believe it’s better if you wait.”
She was so much smarter than people gave her credit for, and I admired how she drove straight to the heart of the matter. “Better for who? You?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “If Damon is revealed in DuBois’s book, it won’t take him any time to deduce i
t came from me. I can’t control it. He could decide that if he goes down, he’s going to take the entire HBHC board with him.” I pressed a hand to the wall and leaned against it. “That wouldn’t just ruin me, Sophia. It’d hurt all of us, including Royce and Marist.”
Since she’d been the last woman to be initiated by the board.
“And it’d be better for Vance,” I continued, “and his political career, if Damon serves a term before it’s announced what kind of man he really is.”
She said nothing, but she was still there because her labored breath came through.
“You’ve known for years and not revealed it,” I said. “I’m asking for two more.”
Sweat sheened my skin from the run, and as I stood motionless in my gym, awaiting her response with my phone pressed to my ear, an icy chill crept over me. It was a warning of how horribly I’d mishandled the situation.
Sophia was detached, like her voice was no longer contained in her body. “Why even ask? It’s done, and it’s clear you don’t give a damn about me. You did what was best for you.” Venom coated each word. “I hope you’re happy.”
This time when the line went silent, I didn’t need to look to see if we were still connected. She’d hung up on me.
My eyes burned from the lack of sleep.
All the calls I made went straight to voicemail, and the text messages unread. After an hour of failed attempts at communication, I considered driving over, but it was the middle of the night.
She was upset. It would be better to give her time to calm down, I told myself. I climbed into bed with the disgruntled cat, who spent five minutes heckling me with angry meows, and the next fifteen rubbing his cheeks against my fingers. I wished for sleep to come, and when it didn’t, I crafted a course of action.
It wasn’t surprising when my phone stayed silent in the morning. There were no pictures for me to approve. Whatever she put on today, she wasn’t wearing it for me. So, I dressed in one of my favorite bespoke suits, a dark gray one paired with a simple black tie, stood before the mirror in my closet, and took a picture to text to her.
