by Ivy Layne
It sounded like a random question, but I knew what Josephine was getting at. "I had to do the things that scared me," I said in a low voice. "But this is different."
"How is this different, Em?" She tied off the braid and urged me to lay down on the bed, pulling my quilt up around my shoulders and stroking my forehead. "Get some rest. I know that scene was a nightmare. The only person who feels worse about it than you is Tate."
She left quietly, and I pulled the quilt around me, clutching it with my fingers, tears rolling down my cheeks. Jo was right. I knew she was right. I was still in a cage, a bigger cage than I'd been in a few years ago, but I was still trapped by my own fears, and the only way to beat them was to face them. This time, the reward wasn’t college or a career. If I could find the courage, the reward could be Tate. If he still wanted me.
Chapter Twelve
Tate
I pounded on the door of Jacob's apartment, furious that he hadn't answered. I knew he was home. He wasn't in his office, my first stop, and Holden had told me he was no longer with the police. I wished, more than anything, that I'd answered Holden's calls that morning. He'd been trying to warn me about the reporters, and if I'd known, I could've told Emily, and I would have found out what a big fucking problem they would be.
Instead, I walked into that cluster fuck blind and ended up losing Emily. Maybe it was my fault. I hadn't tried hard enough to talk her around, or been patient enough, but at that moment, I was happier blaming Jacob.
I had a key to Jacob's door, though he’d probably rip my head off if I used it. I didn't care. Let him get pissed. I could use a fight.
I unlocked the door and swung it open, revealing the front hall of Jacob's plush penthouse. My cousin owned the top floor of Winters House, and it looked like a gilded age mansion with gleaming hardwoods, smooth, creamy plaster walls, and priceless oil paintings. To my surprise, a woman stood in front of me, her dark hair up in a twist, dressed in yoga pants and a matching tailored hoodie, holding Jacob’s house phone up as if it were a weapon. Her eyes went wide at the sight of me, and she backed up a step. In a calm, cultured voice, she said, "Leave, or I'm calling security."
"Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my cousin's penthouse?" I demanded.
She narrowed her eyes on my face, studying me for a moment before her shoulders relaxed and she dropped the hand holding the phone. "You’re one of Jacob's cousins, I presume? Which one? You’re too young to be Gage, or Vance, so you must be Tate."
She was clever, whoever she was. "Good call. When will Jacob be back?"
"You'd better come in," she said, turning and disappearing into the penthouse. I followed her, curiosity beginning to outweigh my frustration.
"Who are you?" I asked again as she came to a stop in Jacob’s kitchen.
"I think it's better if Jacob answers that question. But I have his permission to be here, if that's what you're worried about. Would you like some coffee? Tea? It's a little early for lunch, but I can probably throw something together."
"Coffee, and something to eat, if you have it. It's been a long morning," I said, sitting down at the counter facing the rest of the kitchen. The woman moved as if she were very familiar with her surroundings, starting coffee and pulling things out of the fridge. This was beyond weird. If Holden was touchy about letting women in his apartment, Jacob was even worse. He was occasionally open to houseguests—a few months ago, he'd sheltered a friend of the family's girlfriend when she was having a hard time—maybe this was something similar. There was no way she was involved with Jacob. He'd never let a woman he was fucking live in his house. Still, she was exactly his type, classically beautiful, polished and elegant despite her casual clothes. Her hands moved with grace as she assembled a sandwich. Something about her tugged at my memory, and I had the feeling I was missing something.
"Do I know you?" I asked.
"Wouldn't you know if you did?" she countered. "Cream? Sugar?" She held up a steaming mug of coffee.
"Black is fine." I took the coffee and sipped, grateful for the caffeine.
"Did the mess in the parking garage this morning have anything to do with you?" I asked, fishing for information. The woman flinched but recovered immediately, her face shifting back to the same calm, serene expression.
"You really need to ask Jacob. He called half an hour ago and said he was on his way home."
I drank my coffee, understanding that as polite as Jacob's guest was, she wasn't going to tell me anything. Holden hadn't known why there had been police and reporters in the parking garage either. He'd gotten a call from Cooper Sinclair, telling him to stay in the office and keep his head down—and to call me—but that was it.
The woman slid a turkey sandwich in front of me, and I ate it gratefully, noting as I did the thin layer of pesto and the fresh tomatoes. So Jacob didn't just have a woman living with him. He had one who could cook. Good to know. She'd excused herself while I was eating, leaving me alone in Jacob's kitchen. Annoyed at the wait, I wandered around when I was finished eating, ending up in Jacob's office. Like everything else, it was old school, elegant, and very neat. Jacob was wound way too tight to leave things lying around. I was curious to see a manila envelope left on his desk, the clasp open and papers pulled halfway out. I didn't think I'd ever seen anything on his desk aside from the blotter and pen.
Bored and feeling nosy, I picked it up and looked at the photograph on top only to freeze in shock. With a shaking hand, I withdrew the photograph. It showed a room I'd only seen in pictures and a woman I barely remembered sprawled on an oriental carpet, her hand flung above her head, a bullet wound in her chest. What the fuck? Grief, old and sour, weighed on my heart. I’d seen this picture once and had never wanted to see it again. I barely remembered my mother. I didn’t want this ugly image of her dead body in my head, crowding out the few memories I had of her when she was still alive.
"Put that down," Jacob said from behind me, reaching around to yank the envelope and the photograph out of my hands.
"Why do you have that?" I asked, confused and a little sick. "Why do you have a crime scene picture of my parents’ murder? What the fuck is going on? Does this have anything to do with what happened downstairs? And why do you have a woman living with you that none of us have ever seen?"
"Would you relax?" Jacob asked, his voice ice cold, his tone suggesting I do as he said or face the consequences.
"No, I will not relax. I want to know what's fucking going on. My girlfriend just broke up with me over that bullshit in the garage."
Jacob's eyes softened, but he raised a sardonic eyebrow and said, “Your girlfriend? Since when do you have a girlfriend?"
Feeling annoyingly put in my place, I shoved my hands in my pockets and said, “Since this morning, but it didn't last very long, thanks to you."
Jacob went around to the other side of his desk and shoved the envelope and picture in a drawer, slamming it shut. “I’m not going to talk about the picture. Not yet. Come back in the kitchen," he said. "It's been a long fucking morning, and I'm starving."
"Fine." I followed him back to the kitchen, where the woman, now wearing a linen shift dress and sandals, was making Jacob a sandwich similar to the one she'd made for me. Looking between her and my cousin I said, “Are you going to introduce us?"
I wasn't expecting to see Jacob walk up behind her and slide his arm around her waist, dropping a gentle kiss on her neck just below her ear. She murmured something to him and he answered, but I couldn't hear what they said.
"Abigail, you've met my cousin, Tate. Tate, this is Abigail Jordan. She's my guest, and while she's here, security has been tightened."
"It's nice to meet you, Abigail," I said, smiling at her. To Jacob, without a smile, I said, “Where have you been all morning? What happened in the garage?"
Jacob took the coffee Abigail handed him and sipped before he said, "Abigail had an unfortunate situation that is none of your business. As part of that situation, someone tried t
o shoot me in the garage this morning. We're still not sure exactly how he got in, but he's in police custody and I'm fine. When she got here, I increased security, but I did it quietly because we didn't want to broadcast her location. After this morning, that's no longer a concern."
"The Sinclairs are on it?" I asked. Jacob nodded.
“You, Holden, and the other residents will get a brief this afternoon. Traffic in and out of the garage will be personally checked. It's going to be slow, but it should prevent the kind of scene you dealt with this morning."
“And you're not going to tell me why someone was shooting at you?" I asked.
Abigail started to speak, but Jacob flashed a glance in her direction and she stopped, biting her lip as if to prevent any sound from leaking out.
"It's not your business," Jacob repeated. "Despite what happened this morning, I don't want anyone to know Abigail is here, so don't tell Holden or your brothers."
Wanting to mess with him a little, I said, “What about your brothers?” I knew that if Abigail were a secret, he definitely wouldn't want Aidan to know. Aiden was the oldest of all of us, the patriarch of the family now that our parents were dead, and he was both nosy and bossy. If Abigail was a secret, Jacob definitely wouldn't want Aidan to know about her. Showing signs of temper for the first time, Jacob said, “Don't fucking tell Aidan anything."
Interrupting us, Abigail asked, “Your girlfriend broke up with you because of what happened in the garage?"
"Because of the reporters," I said. "They were like a pack of wolves, shouting and taking pictures. Emily has problems with anxiety and panic attacks, and it was too much. She freaked out, and then she broke up with me."
Jacob didn't say anything, just narrowed his eyes, but Abigail frowned and considered before she said, “Did she freak out, or did she have a panic attack?"
"She had a panic attack," I admitted. "It was pretty bad." So bad, I couldn't get it out of my head. Her face had been white, sweat pouring down her skin, her body shaking so hard she could barely stand up. Listening to her struggle to breathe on the short car ride to her apartment had been torture.
"I had a friend in college who had panic attacks," Abigail said quietly. "I always felt terrible for her when they happened."
Somehow, Abigail's quiet acceptance made me feel the need to explain. “Emily was a victim in a mass shooting when she was a kid, the only survivor, and the media was relentless. She said the panic attacks started because of that."
"We know what that's like," Jacob said, meeting my eyes. We did know. The attention had been brutal when Jacob’s parents had died. I didn’t remember the fallout from losing my own mother and father, but losing my aunt and uncle had been hellish—both the sudden loss and the unrelenting harassment by the media. At least we'd had each other to lean on, to buffer the intensity. Emily had been on her own, dealing with survivor's guilt on top of everything else.
“Walking into that garage this morning must have been horrible for her," Abigail said. "Is she all right?"
I shook my head. "I don't know. She told me she couldn't deal with me anymore and kicked me out."
"She kicked you out? And you just left?” Jacob demanded. I heard the censure in his voice, but he hadn’t seen Emily. The last thing I’d wanted to do was push her when it was taking everything she had to hold herself together. She’d asked me to go, so I’d gone.
“You don’t understand,” I said, echoing Emily’s comment to me.
“So what are you going to do?" Jacob asked. "Or is this going to be the shortest relationship in the history of relationships?"
"What am I supposed to do?" I asked, irritated. It wasn't like Jacob was a relationship expert. He rotated through the same group of socialites, but he never kept any of them around for long. I'd never seen him display the kind of easy affection he'd showed Abigail.
"I don't know," Jacob said, sarcasm dripping from his words. "Go apologize? Beg her forgiveness and tell her you can work things out? Or is her condition too much and you don't want to deal with it?"
"It's not too much," I protested. "But I can't force her to want to be with me. And she's right, we do have to deal with the media. I can try to keep her safe from that, but I can't make any promises. I won't lie to her."
"Do you love her? Or are you just having fun?"
"We haven't been together that long," I said, wishing I knew the answer to his question. "I've never been in love before. I know I don't want to lose her. I've never felt like this about any woman. I just don't know how to fix this."
"Tell her how you feel," Abigail said softly. "Be honest with her and tell her how you feel. She had a shock this morning, and she probably regrets breaking up with you. I'd give her a little space to get over the panic attack, but not too much, and then go talk to her."
I leaned against the counter and looked down at my feet, thinking. There had to be a way to work this out with Emily. I couldn't let her go. I wouldn't put her in a situation that was bad for her, wouldn't ask her to subject herself to the kind of thing that happened this morning. But we would find an answer. What we had was too good to throw away.
Chapter Thirteen
Emily
I stopped at my front door, my hand on the knob, checking my back pocket for my keys as I balanced a wicker basket in the crook of my arm. The basket hadn’t seemed that heavy when I was packing it, but now that I was carrying it, I realized I’d misjudged. Fortunately, I didn’t have that far to go. It had been two days since I’d seen Tate. Two very long days. I missed him, missed him so much my heart hurt just thinking about it, but I’d had to do some thinking, then some talking, and after that, more thinking. Now it was time to act.
I left my apartment, locking the door behind me. It was time to talk to Tate. I wasn’t sure he was home, but I’d try there first, even if it meant pushing my way through more reporters. Jo had told me that interest had calmed down, but there were still a few of them trolling the street in front of the building, looking for a story. She still didn’t know what had happened. No one did, not really, but that wasn’t stopping the papers from trying to tie Tate’s cousin, Holden’s brother, Jacob, to organized crime and gang violence. The whole thing was nuts. I was so absorbed in thinking about Tate and the drama at Winters House, I almost walked into the door to the stairwell when it swung open.
Taking a quick step back, I looked up and met Tate’s dark blue eyes. “I was coming to see you,” I said nervously, shifting the basket from one arm to the other. He eyed it, then looked at me.
“You were?” He stepped into the hallway and let the door shut behind him. “Can we go to your apartment? I have some things to say.”
I nodded and turned around, fumbling for my keys. It reminded me of the last time we’d been at my door together. I’d put a lot of the blame for my panic attack on Tate, but that hadn’t been fair. The reporters may have been calling his name, but he hadn’t been the reason they were there. And he’d gotten me away from them safely, had taken care of me when he didn’t even know what was wrong.
I let us in, putting the basket on the kitchen table. “Do you want anything? Beer? Coffee?” I asked, feeling awkward. Tate shook his head.
“Can we sit down?” He went to the couch, and I followed, my carefully rehearsed speech falling apart in my head. I’d planned what to say, had a list of points I’d wanted to make, and now, I couldn’t remember a single one. I joined Tate on the couch, my knees pressed together, trying to think of what to say.
At a loss, I finally blurted out, “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” Tate asked in surprise. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one who needs to apologize. If I’d answered Holden’s call, none of that would have happened.”
I shook my head. “It’s not your fault I have anxiety attacks, Tate. And it’s not your fault I had that one. It’s just something I have to deal with. Even before the shooting, I was shy. I’ve never liked attention. I’ve gotten much better, but I don’t
know that it’s ever going to completely go away.”
“What does that mean for us?” he asked, moving closer and taking my hand in his, lacing our fingers. I looked down and closed my fingers around his, gripping them tightly.
“I don’t know,” I answered as honestly as I could. “I care about you. A lot. More than I should, considering I don’t really know you that well.”
“I feel the same way.” Tate reached out and tilted my face up to his. “I can’t stand the idea of losing you, Emily. You fit with me. I don’t care about the rest of the world. When I’m with you, everything feels right. Whatever we have to do to make this work, we can do it. If you don’t want to come to my building, I’ll move. There are family events I can’t avoid, but you don’t have to deal with anything you don’t want to.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “I don’t want you to move, Tate.” A half-laugh escaped me, and I shook my head. “I saw my therapist yesterday—talked to her about how I was feeling. It helped me clarify some things.”
“And?” Tate asked.
“She reminded me that getting better is about facing my fears, not running from them. I’m never going to be okay with the kind of thing that happened yesterday. And I don’t think I’m going to love the idea of going to events where there are a lot of reporters. But if you’re willing to be patient while I work on getting better, I want to try.”
“It’s not about patience, Emily,” Tate said. “I want to be with you. I want you to be happy, and I’ll do whatever I have to do to make that happen. You only have to tell me what you need.”
“You,” I said. “I just need you. If you can stand by me while I keep trying to handle this, that’s all I want. A chance to be with you.”
In answer, Tate pulled me close, his lips taking mine with a desperation I hadn’t felt before. I matched it with my own. Two days apart felt like a year. I’d been so scared I’d ruined everything by pushing him away. I fell back into the couch cushions, Tate on top of me, loving the weight and heat of his long body pinning me down. I ran my fingers through his hair, holding his hand, kissing him back with everything I had. When his hand slid under my shirt, I broke the kiss and said,
