There’s no denying he’s a twin. He looks nearly identical to his brother, so his features aren’t unfamiliar to me. But in a way they are. There are subtle things that I see right away that set him apart from his brother, things like a small scar that disrupts the smooth line of his right eyebrow, the lighter streaks in his hair from time spent under the sun at sea, and the bronze sheen to his skin. In my opinion, he’s ten times more handsome, more rugged than Cash. And certainly far more dangerous.
I realize what I’m doing as I stare at him.
Stop staring! You’re like the creepy watch-him-while-he-sleeps, obsessed girlfriend.
I make myself roll away from him and get out of bed. I’m as quiet as I can be. Nash is such a strong force, it’s easy to forget that he was stabbed not so long ago. No doubt his body needs the rest.
I head for the bathroom and a much-needed shower. As I lather and rinse my hair, I let my mind wander back to the conversation Nash and I had last night, to the things he told me. My heart aches at the thought of what he’s had to endure, at the thought of what he’s probably seen and done as a result of someone else’s mistakes. It’s no wonder he’s angry and bitter. And the loss of his mother— essentially his entire family—on top of that is horrific. I decide it’s a testament to his strength of character that he survived as well as he did.
But I think parts of him might be forever damaged, if they, in fact, survived at all.
I shake off the depressing thoughts. I don’t like to think about the very real possibility that he’ll never feel anything more for me than what he does right now, that he’ll never be capable of a more meaningful relationship.
But I knew that going in. He himself told me that he would hurt me. I guess I was either stupid enough or arrogant enough to think that I might be different, that he might change for me.
As water sluices down my body, I come to the harsh and disturbing realization that if anyone can help Nash feel again, it’s likely going to be someone a lot nicer than me. Someone more like Olivia. Someone with less baggage, someone who isn’t just as broken as he is. Together, our pieces might make one whole person. But I doubt it.
My morose thoughts only worsen when I get out of the bathroom to find not only an empty bed, but an empty condo. There’s no note, no indication of where he went or when he might be back. No nothing. Just an echo of my earlier worries, an echo that says Nash is inconsiderate because he just doesn’t care. And that he never will.
I feel a twinge of pain somewhere in the vicinity of my heart. For once in my life, my feelings for a man have nothing to do with my ego. I wish that were the case. Wounded pride is much easier to deal with than this increasing feeling of hopelessness.
As I walk back to the bedroom, I hear the bleep of an incoming text. I detour to the table by the door where my purse, and, therefore, my phone rests. I plugged it in last night to charge it and never went back to get it. Nash distracted me.
I’ll say.
A warm flutter dances in my belly just thinking about him standing behind me in the mirror last night. I’m sure I shouldn’t have liked him being so rough and angry. I’m sure I should’ve objected, both as a woman with some self-respect and as a human being. But I don’t regret that I let it go on. For some reason, it felt like one of the most honest exchanges we’ve had thus far. He wasn’t holding anything back. He wasn’t pretending to be anyone or anything. He was just Nash. Raw, angry, sexual Nash, taking what he wanted and needed. And he took it from me.
I know I shouldn’t read so much into him coming to me for it, but I can’t seem to help it. Just as quickly as the hopelessness set in, a tiny seed of hope grows to overwhelm it.
I’m sure it will be the reverse in a few minutes or a few hours. I seem to have become emotionally bipolar since meeting Nash.
As I reach for my phone, I chastise myself for seeing and feeling things that aren’t there and setting myself up for a devastating letdown. What I find only gives my foolish heart more reason to hope.
I’m with Cash. Call if you need me. I can be home in a few minutes.
I text my short reply and try not to smile too broadly.
Okay.
Home?
My optimism returns tenfold. For a moment, I don’t think about anything but the fact that he’s being considerate of me, caring. Feeling. And that he referred to this as home.
But at the same time all this hope is filling me, rational thought is arguing with it from somewhere far in the back of my mind. It’s warning me that I’ve fallen for Nash, that I’ve fallen hard. And the thing is, I’m smart enough to know that a fall like this could break me.
Permanently.
* * *
The caller ID makes me sigh. It reads Deliane Pruitt. My secretary. And the fourth person from work to call me in the last two hours.
What happened this morning? Did the floodgates of gossip open up?
“Good morning, Del. How are you?” I greet her pleasantly.
“Good morning. Am I interrupting?”
“Not at all.”
“Okay. Good. The word is out about your return, and I’m getting calls from people wanting to set up lunches and meetings and fund-raisers. Are you coming in today?”
Her question irritates me, as does everyone’s assumption that I’m working, just because I’m back in the country. Of course, I know they’re just doing what they’ve always done. I’m always available for those things. Lunches and fund-raisers have always been more play than anything, and a “meeting” is just another name for a social gathering for drinks at a posh restaurant.
A thought occurs to me, striking me momentarily speechless.
“Marissa?” Del’s voice brings me back to the conversation.
“What? Oh, sorry. Um, no, don’t put anything on my schedule yet. I’m not sure when I’ll be back in the office. Or back to work, for that matter. I’ve got some things I need to tend to first.” I pause before I ask Del a question, a question related to the thought I had. A question I’m not entirely certain I want the answer to. “Um, Del, has anyone called about the Peachburg accounts? It’s about time for them to follow up.”
The Peachburg accounts are the ones that Daddy and I went to the Caymans to look at. At the time I thought nothing of him bringing along a “team” to help and to familiarize themselves with the accounts, but now it seems like much more. Now, it makes sense.
“No, ma’am. I think Garrett Dickinson is handling most of that now.”