He ignored the phone in favor of a shower and did not check the device until he was seated at the dining table with a bowl of cereal and his coffee. He took his first sip as he unlocked the smartphone screen and followed the link to a YouTube video—
The coffee scalded his throat, but he scarcely noticed.
Maggie, unashamedly naked, sprawled on a couch with her legs spread. Her eyes were closed and her cheeks flushed as she writhed beneath Tyler’s mouth and hands.
God, no… The punch of shock was so real that it doubled Drew over. The rush of pain that followed was worse than the accident that shattered his knee.
Unable to tear his gaze away, he watched the video play to its conclusion. Maggie climaxed, her back arching. Her lips moved, her words inaudible. Ecstasy infused her expression.
Drew hurled his phone across the room. It smashed against the wall and tumbled to the carpet in pieces. A tangle of incoherent curses caught in his throat. One forced its way out. Fucking hell! He shoved to his feet. His knee protested; a cramp clenched his thigh, but he strode out of the apartment.
His first instinct was to head to Maggie’s condominium, to do what, though, he didn’t know. Scold her? Yell at her? It was her life, and Tyler was certainly not the first man she had slept with that month, and—
It’s not my damned business.
If he repeated it enough, he might actually come to believe it.
Drew walked the streets of New York until his injured leg trembled with fatigue. By then, hours had passed. The initial surge of anger over Maggie’s video faded, although the hurt remained, as did the unjustified sense of betrayal.
It’s not my damned business.
His shoulders equally tense from the emotional stress of the video as the physical strain of an extended walk on his bum knee, Drew went into an AT&T store to purchase a replacement smartphone. After the smiling salesperson transferred Drew’s account and number to the new device, the phone buzzed. Drew glanced at the screen. His lips tugged into an ironic smile. Google search was on a roll.
The links led to altered videos, where Tyler’s face had been replaced with another man’s or Maggie’s breasts substituted with the oversized mammaries of a porn star. The videos were laughable. The comments were not.
The kindest comments called her a “slut” and “whore.” The words of anonymous people on the internet spewed hate; the women worse than the men. Drew sucked in a shuddering breath and did what he should have done months…years…earlier. He deleted the Google search on Marguerite Ferrara.
He could not go home. He would drive himself crazy staring at the walls, thinking of Maggie. Instead, he found a café and dosed himself with several cups of black coffee as the sun traced a path across New York City. His thoughts churned but always came down to one inescapable fact. It’s not my damned business.
He was Maggie’s financial advisor, and the sooner he focused his attention strictly and entirely on her finances, the better off he would be. He was thirty. He had reached the end of his runway on wanting a woman he could not have. If he lingered any longer in his unwarranted misery, he’d move from stupid to pathetic. He couldn’t abide pathetic, especially not in himself.
He couldn’t risk depression again.
Drew added a Reuben sandwich order to his coffee refills. He had no appetite, but he forced himself to take a few bites before shoving the sandwich aside. He glanced down the street at the setting sun and shook his head; he had spent an entire day doing nothing.
His phone rang. He glanced at the 914 area code. Westchester? He accepted the call. “Drew Jackson.”
“Mr. Jackson,” a woman spoke. Her voice possessed a sheen of polish he associated with top-notch executive assistants, but there was an underlying layer of panic no amount of polish could conceal. “I’m Liane Haas, Mr. Dylan Smith’s assistant.”
Maggie’s father? “What I can do for you, Ms. Haas?”
“I’m trying to reach Maggie Ferrara, but she’s not answering her phone—”
No wonder.
“—and I don’t know how else to reach her. Mr. Smith pointed to your name, and I wonder, can you help? Please, I’m at my wit’s end. I have to get in touch with her.”
“I can try to call her, but if Maggie’s not going to take her father’s call, I doubt she’ll take mine.”
“Please try. Anything you can do to help; I don’t know how much longer he has.”
A chill shuddered through Drew’s chest. “What are you saying?”
~*~
“Maggie!” Drew’s muffled voice shouted through the door.
Maggie raised her head from her tear-sodden pillow. Where had he been when she had needed him? She had called. He hadn’t answered his phone. She had braved the paparazzi and scurried to his apartment, seeking refuge. He hadn’t answered the door.
In the end, she had crept home, inexplicably hurting more from his implicit rejection than from the horrid video on the internet.
“Maggie. Open the door.”
“Go away,” she croaked, though she doubted he could hear her. Her head hurt. Her chest hurt. She couldn’t move—
“Open the door, or I’ll call 911 and have them break it down.”
Maggie dragged herself from the bed and walked barefoot across the marble tiles. She made sure the chain lock was in place before she opened the door a crack. She tried to work up as much arrogance as she could manage. “What do you want?”
“Let me in.”
In lieu of honest courage, she tried snark. “When did you change your mind about associating with me?”
“What?”
He sounded genuinely confused. Nice try. She snorted. “You didn’t take my call this morning, and you didn’t let me in.”
“You came to my place?” He looked surprised. “I couldn’t take any calls. My phone broke, and I didn’t get it replaced until hours later. I wasn’t home either. Why aren’t you picking up the phone? People are trying to get in touch with you.”
“I turned off my phone. It’s all reporters anyway. Anyway, thanks for checking in. As you can see, I’m fine.” She started to push the door close.
He placed his hand in the gap. “Let me in, Maggie. Please, now.”
He wouldn’t be so easily put off. She should have known better. Someone who hated roast pork buns and yet brought them to their every meeting just for her would not be deterred by a closed door. Her voice quavered. “You’re mad at me, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not. Let me in, please.”
“After I told you Tyler meant nothing to me—”
“Open the door, Maggie.”
Drew rarely used that tone, the one that told her he wasn’t taking any more crap from her. When he did, her compliance was almost instinctive. She eased his fingers out, closed the door, and unlatched the security chain. She opened the door again and found herself instantly wrapped in his arms.
The warmth and safety of his embrace melted the icy barriers holding back her tears. They poured out of her, soaking his shirt, as she shuddered and sobbed against his chest. He said nothing, but nothing was needed then, except his presence. He was here with her, holding her through her worst moments as she had always known he would.
Drew rubbed her back as her sobs stilled, but did not pull away until she initiated the movement. He looked down at her, his dark eyes shadowed. “I need you to come with me. We’re going up to Westchester tonight.”
“What?” Maggie blinked in surprise. When had they changed the topic?
He held on to her hand and drew a deep breath, as if bracing for what he had to say. “Your father had a heart attack. I’ve got a cab waiting downstairs. We have to go.”
“My…” Maggie pressed a hand to her mouth. “But…”
He led her to the couch. “Sit. I’ll pack an overnight bag for you.”
But… She stared at his back as he walked away from her. Daddy? Maggie pulled her smartphone from the pocket of her denim jeans and turned it on. It buzze
d as messages scrolled across her screen. Buried among missed calls from reporters and tabloids were messages from Liane Haas, her father’s personal assistant, and a dozen or more missed calls from Drew who had apparently been trying to reach her for the past hour.
Her hands trembling, Maggie called Liane.
“Oh, Maggie,” Liane answered immediately. “Thank God, you called. Did Drew—”
“He’s here now. My father?”
“He’s at Phelps Memorial Hospital.”
“Is he going to be all right?”
“We don’t know.” Liane’s voice quivered. “I found him at 4 p.m., but the doctors say he had the heart attack hours earlier, and that it was a miracle I found him alive at all. I called your brother. He’s on his way in from San Diego. Your mother is trying to catch a flight out of Venice, but you’re closest, and—”
“We’ll be there in an hour.” Maggie looked up as Drew returned to the living room with a duffle bag. “We’re leaving now.” She shot to her feet. “Why didn’t you tell me the moment you walked through that door, damn it?”
“Because sometimes, you need to get over one challenge before dealing with the next.” He took the keys out of her hand and locked the door when she would have marched straight into the elevator without closing her door, never mind locking it.
The paparazzi still crowded around the main entrance, but with Drew shielding her from the most intrusive cameras, Maggie pushed past the paparazzi and into the backseat of the cab waiting at the curb.
The driver looked over his shoulder as Drew slid in beside Maggie. “All set?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Johnny,” Drew said.
“And we’re off.” The driver tapped on his GPS, which had been programmed with the address of Phelps Memorial Hospital.
New York City whizzed by, a blur of lights against the dark of the night. Her eyes dry and her throat clogged with unshed tears, Maggie stared out into the darkness, grateful for the solid presence of the man beside her. She did not look at him, but he drew her close and held her tight.
She cleared her throat. “Do…do you think he heard about the…the—”
“Don’t go there, Maggie.”
“But what if I—?”
“Shhh.” His grip tightened around her shoulders. “Let it go, for now. One thing at a time.”
She rested her head against his shoulder. “Did you…?”
His body tensed against hers. He hesitated before replying. “Yes.”
Maggie shuddered. “I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say.
Several moments passed before he responded with a kiss against her hair.
She could almost believe that he had forgiven her, but she knew it would not be that easy. Drew was doing what he had always done best—avoiding difficult conversations by simply not talking through them. Maggie and Drew said nothing else to each other as the cab eased its way through Manhattan’s heavy traffic and then sped north to Westchester. At that moment, it was enough to be together, united in purpose. They were both going home.
Chapter 9
The florescent lights in the intensive care unit of Phelps Memorial Hospital reflected off the white tiles and pulsed a migraine through Maggie’s head. She gritted her teeth against the pain as she hurried to the counter. Drew carried their bags but was never more than two steps behind. She leaned on the desk. “I’m Maggie Ferrara. I’m Dylan Smith’s daughter. I want to see him.”
Drew spoke up. “Who’s the attending doctor? We’d like to talk to him too.”
The nurse checked her records. “I’ll page the doctor, and he’ll meet you in the room. This way.” She stepped out from behind the counter and led the way down the corridor. “He’s in here.” She glanced at Drew. “I’m sorry, the ICU is family only.”
Maggie opened her mouth to protest—she needed Drew beside her—but the nurse looked firm.
“I’m right out here,” Drew promised. “Go on. Go see him.”
Maggie pushed the door open. The overhead lights in the room were dim, although the blinking machines emanated their own glow. In spite of the tubes and wires trailing over his body, her father looked robust and healthy, as if he were merely asleep as she had so often seen him, on a deck chair by the pool.
She crept close and wrapped her fingers around his. “Daddy? I’m here.”
Did his fingers tighten around hers, or had she only imagined it?
“Drew brought me here.” She drew in a deep breath. “I’m so sorry I didn’t come earlier. I did something stupid, and I was trying to hide from Drew and from everyone else. But I’m here now. I’m sure Drew’s furious with me, but he found me anyway, and he didn’t even yell at me.”
Maggie held back a sigh. Her head hurt. Her problems blurred and blended into a single aching hole where her heart was supposed to be. Her voice caught. “I screwed up so badly with him, and I don’t know how to fix it. And worse, I don’t think he wants me to fix it. I know it’s crazy, but sometimes, I get the feeling he wants me to push him past the point of no return so that he can walk away and not feel guilty about it.”
She sniffed back a sob. “It’s crazy, isn’t it, Daddy? I don’t know why he would feel that way. I know I’m difficult, but I’m not that horrible.” Or was she? She sniffled again. “I love him. I’ve loved him for years. I need you to get better so that you can tell him to stop being an ass.” She raised her father’s fingers to her lips and kissed them. “Get better, please, Daddy. I need you.” I don’t want to lose you.
~*~
“Drew!”
Slouched against a wall, Drew glanced up at the sound of his name. A man in a rumpled business suit strode toward him. A smile spread across Drew’s face. He straightened and extended his hand to his former high school classmate. “Brandon.”
“Where’s Maggie?” Brandon Smith, Maggie’s older brother, asked.
Drew jerked his head at the closed door.
Brandon frowned. “Why aren’t you in there with her?”
“ICU’s family only.”
“Bullshit. Where’s the doctor?”
“Haven’t seen him.”
Brandon scowled. He beckoned, a clear gesture that Drew was to follow him, and then pushed open the door to his father’s hospital room. “Maggie.”
She spun around. “Brandon!” She threw herself into his arms. “You made it.”
“Yeah, and what the hell is this? Dad aced his last physical checkup. What happened?”
“Shit happens,” a clear female voice cut in.
Drew glanced over his shoulder.
The doctor who entered the room looked much too young to be trusted with patient care. Apparently, Brandon had reached the same conclusion, though less politely. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Dr. Larson. I was on call in the ER when they brought him in. I stabilized him and moved him to the ICU. And you are?”
“Brandon Smith, his son. My sister, Maggie.”
The doctor looked at Drew, her eyebrow arched inquiringly.
Brandon spoke before Drew could. “Drew Jackson, Maggie’s fiancé.”
Drew wasn’t certain whether to laugh or sigh. Brandon, a trial lawyer, could lie like a champ. To Maggie’s credit, she didn’t bat an eyelid at her brother’s fib.
If the doctor didn’t believe it, at least she didn’t bother to challenge it. “Have you spoken to Dr. Keller yet?”
“You’re the first doctor we’ve spoken to,” Brandon said. “Will he make it?”
“Hard to say. He’s lucky to be alive, but it could go either way with little warning. I’m sorry I don’t have better news for you.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I’m at the end of my shift. I just wanted to look in on him. I’d tell you not to worry, but I know that’s impossible. Just know that he’s in good hands here in the ICU.”
She turned and walked away.
Brandon frowned. “Negative seven for bedside manners. Maggie, how are you doing?”
She flicked a glance at Drew. �
��I—”
Dylan Smith stirred. A low grunt whispered from his throat.
Maggie, Brandon, and Drew rushed to the bedside.
“Daddy?” Maggie clutched his hand.
Drew spun around. “I’ll get the doctor.”
“Drew…”
He twisted back to face Maggie’s father. The older man’s eyes, dark and intense, locked on him. Dylan’s lips moved, shaping words, but only one was audible. “Promise…”
Promise? Promise what?
The machines screeched a warning. Nurses and doctors rushed into the room. They pushed Maggie and Brandon away from the bed as they scrambled to resuscitate Dylan. Drew backed up against the wall, watching helplessly, as the first attempt failed, as did the second, and the third.
Maggie sobbed in Brandon’s arms. Her brother stared, eyes wide with disbelief, as their father was finally declared dead.
Chapter 10
The days following Dylan Smith’s death passed in a haze of inadequate condolences from friends who came to pay their last respects. Maggie accepted them with nods of thanks while leaning, literally and figuratively, on Drew. He anchored her through the upheaval, made certain she ate and slept, and took her out on long walks and drives through the surrounding countryside. He listened whenever she wanted to talk, and stayed silent when all she wanted was a hug. He was the first person she saw when she woke and the last person before she went to sleep.
By the time she buried her father, Maggie knew, for a fact, she did not want to live without Drew. She lay in bed that night, staring up at the darkened ceiling. Out in the kitchen, she heard her brother’s voice. Was he speaking to Drew? She tugged a robe around her silk pajamas and slipped quietly out of her bedroom.
She would never know what mischievous instinct caused her to pause outside of the kitchen to eavesdrop.
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