Wherever It Leads(49)

He jerks the blankets up over our bodies and turns me around so I face the wall.

“We’ve had a long day. Let’s get some sleep,” he whispers.

“Maybe we can have lunch by the pool tomorrow,” I say, sleep settling over my brain quickly. The crying was the nail in the coffin and I can’t keep my eyes open.

Fenton responds, but I can’t focus on his words. I just settle in, finding a rhythm in the beating of his heart, and force myself to think about boats and kisses.





Something shakes me. I groan and turn away after a night of letting the demons that come around in the darkness have a party in my brain.

“Brynne. Wake up.”

The voice sounds far away. It’s too soft to make out exactly. It’s too much work to try to open my eyes or to figure out what’s happening, so I drift back off again.

Pressure descends on my thigh and I’m tussled back and forth.

I drag my eyes open and wipe the sleep out of them. They’re swollen from a night of intermediate crying and sobbing and my head has a dull throb of what I fear is the start of a banging migraine.

Fenton, fresh from the shower, is bent over me. As I allow my pupils to adjust to the light, I breathe him in. He smells like cotton and musk and my senses are enveloped by the comfort it brings.

“Good morning,” he whispers, running his hand down the side of my face. I lean into his touch, his warmth.

“Morning. What time is it?”

“It’s early, just seven o’clock.”

“I thought you had a meeting?”

He takes a deep breath and holds it a long second before releasing it in a heavy huff. “I did, but it got rescheduled. I have the jet on the runway waiting on us in an hour.”

I scramble to sit up, to knock the fog out of my head. My stomach plummets when I remember the disastrous night before—my parents, Brady, Fenton’s call. I remember him carrying me to bed and holding me throughout the night. When I fell asleep, we’d discussed what we would do today.

What changed?

“I know I planned on a staying a couple more days,” he says, his voice trembling with a hint of uncertainty, “I just think it’s best we get back now.”

“Okay.” I don’t say anything more. I feel whipped, completely defeated in every sense of the word. Being here with him was the distraction I needed and now it’s over. I’m Cinderella and the clock has struck midnight. I’ve gone from being happy, in a complete dream, to being thrust back into the vile real world in one fell swoop.

“Don’t look like that,” he says, lifting my chin with his finger. I can see the hesitancy written all over his handsome face, the way he seems to be giving me room or taking some for himself. Whichever way, it stings.

“We both have a lot happening right now,” he says, “and I need to be at the office handling this. And you probably want to be with your family too, right?”

“Yeah,” I lie to save face.

I’m not sure what changed his mind about us, whatever we are and were going to be, but I guess it was my craziness last night and realizing how his normal way of thinking works for him. Relationships are too much work, too much of a distraction, too much responsibility. He doesn’t want that and it’s probably very clear I’m not at an easy point in my life.

He takes my hand and lifts me off the bed and onto my feet. I jerk at the hem of his shirt that I wore to bed in an effort to feel less exposed. Less bare. Less vulnerable.

Instead of pulling me close like has become our habit, he studies me. It’s not the amused or even warm look I’m used to seeing. It’s peppered with a loneliness that seeps into my bones.

“The last few days have been some of the best days I’ve ever experienced. I want you to know that,” he professes. “You are such a special person, Brynne. I’ll always be grateful for the day you lost your phone.”

I feel his rejection, or what I take as his rejection, and the obnoxious level of misery that accompanies it is devastating. My lip quivers and I bite down on it, hard, to keep myself from crying. I won’t cry in front of him. I won’t cry for him. I won’t belittle myself like that.

“Brynne . . .”

“I need to pack my things.” I bow my head and step around him and towards the ensuite. I’d rather just grab my stuff and get this over with rather than listen to him apologize for changing his mind about everything.

If we get home and he wants to see me again, I’ll work that out. But it’s not a theory that’s holding water at the moment, and I have other things I need to concentrate on. Like not having a nervous breakdown.

I grab a clean outfit from my suitcase and stumble into the ensuite and change. I wait for his hand to fall on my shoulder, the sound of him following behind me. Neither comes.

I get cleaned up, focusing on each step. Brush teeth. Remove shirt. Slip on dress.

Stepping back into the bedroom, it’s vacant. His suitcase is gone, his briefcase that sat all week when he wasn’t at work on the dresser is missing.

The bed is rumpled from our bodies just a few minutes ago. I walk over and let my fingers grab a handful of the sheets and remind myself of what this was. A reset button. A rebound. Even if I allowed myself to believe this had potential for more, it doesn’t now.

I can’t blame him.