Wherever It Leads(81)

I turn around and lean against the counter while I scroll my contacts list. I don’t see the number anywhere. Standing, my elbow snags the corner of Fenton’s delivery. My gaze travels across the package once again.

Nzou Ltd

C/O Fenton Abbott

Wait . . .

I spin the envelope as the Keurig shuts off behind me.

Why does that ring a bell?

No, it can’t be.

My hand trembles as I pick up my phone and proceed to drop it against the counter top. Grabbing it again, I call my mom. She answers on the second ring.

“Mom?”

“What’s wrong, Brynne?”

“Hey, um, I have a question.” My voice shakes like a leaf in an autumnal windstorm. I keep looking at the letters. “Why is the name N-Z-O-U familiar to me?”

“That’s the company Brady was working for. Well, not technically. He was working for Mandla, but the parent company is Nzou. Why?”

The phone slips right out of my hands and smacks against the marble. I make no effort to pick it up. I can hear my mother’s voice, asking me if I’m okay.

I’m not sure, Mom . . .

“Brynne! Answer me!” she shouts from a few feet away.

I choke back the bile in my throat and try to stay calm. “I’m here,” I say as collectedly as possible.

“What’s going on with you? Why did you call to ask me that?”

“No reason,” I laugh and even I don’t believe it. “The name just popped in my head randomly and I couldn’t figure out where I’d heard it before.”

“I mentioned it to you the other day, I think. But why did you think of it? It’s a rather odd name.”

Nzou. Mandla. Ruma. Pano.

My shoulders lift and fall dramatically, but I don’t speak. I can’t. My mind is spinning so fast, tumbling out of control, that I can’t put together a response.

“Brynne Meghan Calloway. Answer me. Something is wrong with you and I know it.”

“I’m fine, Mom,” I lie. “I have to go. I need to get a hold of Presley—”

“Brynne . . .”

“No, I’m really all right. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“If you don’t call me back tonight, I’m coming to see you. Do you understand?”

“I do. Love you.” I click off the phone before she can push any father.

Dragging the envelope back in front of me, I do a triple check of the words.

Could it be a coincidence? Why would Fenton have business with Brady’s business? Did he know Brady? Is he just checking on things, like he did Grant?

Filling my strangled lungs with precious oxygen, I try not to jump to conclusions. I know Fenton. There’s nothing to . . .

I startle at the sound of the door opening and shoes on the entryway floor. My breathing still, my heart pounding wildly. I wait with a sense of overwhelming dread as the footsteps grow closer.

And there he stands all composed in his suit. He assesses me with a swift eye, placing his briefcase down on the floor. The snap of the metal against the wood makes me jostle, my hand moving to my throat.

Guardedly, he moves his eyes to the counter and rests them against the envelope. His lips form a thin line before he meets my gaze.

I feel it. I feel his desire to bolt from the room, the same one I’m fighting. I want to know what this means, but, then again, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to be crushed, humiliated . . . I don’t want to hate the man standing in front of me. The one I’ve started to fall in love with.

“How’s your day?” His tone is clinical, like he’s walked into the office and asked his secretary is she’s having an all right afternoon.

He makes no movement towards me, not the typical reaction for him when he sees me. He usually is touching me in some way within a minute and now he seems like he’s encountered a wild badger.

“You okay, Brynne?”

Hauling in a breath, I nod. “Yeah.”

He seems a bit relieved. “Good. What have you done today?”

“Woke up. Got some coffee. Sat outside a while.” I pull my robe tighter around me, needing some sort of barrier between us. “Received this envelope for you.”

I slide it across the island. He doesn’t touch it. He just glances down at the address label and soaks in reality. When he looks at me again, his eyes are wide.

That sparks my panic. My jaw drops as I try to breathe, try to force air down my constricted throat. My hearing gets blurred, the sounds as he takes a step towards the counter and lifts the offending package dulled by my rapid heartbeat in my ears.

“Did you open this?” he asks.

“No. Should I have?”

He blows out a breath and flops the envelope back on the marble. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a couple of days.”

“Now seems like a good time.”

“Brynne . . .” He looks at the ceiling and then squeezes his eyes closed. “Can we go sit down in the living room?”

“Nope. We can do it right here.”

There’s a good few feet in between us and I add a few more by going to the other end of the island. I have a sick, vile feeling in my stomach that this is not going to be a good conversation, and I don’t want to be so close to him that he can touch me.