Driven By Fate(56)

It was labeled “Official.”

For the first time in days, his heart roused in his chest. His instincts were humming, tripping over each other. In his haste to open the file, he almost sent the laptop sailing off his desk.

He clicked.

It was…his book. The first page, anyway. Words that had only existed in his handwriting until now. He skimmed the familiar text, looking for some hidden meaning, but nothing. There was nothing. Until he reached the bottom and saw the note, one space down from the final line.

It’s official. You have to finish it now. Knock ‘em dead, monocle man. F

The humming inside him came to an abrupt stop. Immediately on its heels came a sharp twist in his middle, so intense he had to grip the desk’s edge for balance. After everything, after what he’d said, she’d stayed in the hotel room long enough to type the first page. So beautifully selfless and far more than he deserved. He could see her doing it, brows drawn in concentration. Gorgeous. His gorgeous girl.

Jesus Christ. What was he doing here? He was in London while Francesca was in New York. It made no f*cking sense. His gaze fell to his watch. Three o’clock in New York. She would have been sitting at her desk, working, while they counted the hours until five. Everything. That time together had been everything. Having her had been everything.

Very slowly, Porter sat back in his chair. He’d had Francesca. Even if their relationship had been short, he’d had her. She’d held his hand, introduced him to her family. Forgiven him three goddamn times. Given him more chances. Trusted him with her body. Cried for him in their hotel bed. He’d had her.

He stared at her typed message, read it again and again until nature forced him to blink. Would she have done those things for him had she not found him…worthy in some way?

It all came down to that. He’d felt unworthy for so long that he’d become comfortable there. His unworthiness was dented battle armor, keeping anything and anyone potentially harmful away, daring anyone to try to get close. But if a dozen spears breached that armor and ran him through, would it hurt half this bad? No. God, no. That armor had done him a horrible disservice. He hadn’t lowered it in time. At that moment, it hung by a ragged piece of chain mail. What prevented it from falling?

Fear of failure. Once he exposed himself, he couldn’t cover back up. But if it meant having Francesca, would it be worth it?

Yes. A million times over.

Porter released a long exhale, thought of Francesca, and allowed the weight to ease off his shoulders. And he survived. Miraculously, he didn’t even hate the man he saw beneath the metal. He’d been driving himself so long, atoning for past failures, that he hadn’t allowed himself to realize that he, himself, was stronger than the goddamn armor.

Why weren’t he and Francesca together? Why? Because he didn’t know how to have a family? Didn’t know how to be the man she needed? All things he could control. All of them.

There were things he would have to learn. Would revel in learning, if only she’d teach him. Again, he saw Francesca leading him down the stairs, inviting him for dinner. Running after him in the rain. Throwing herself at him, kissing his face for naming her cab company.

Jesus, she’d been teaching him the whole time.

He was the only thing stopping himself from having her again.

In his mad rush to leave the apartment, he almost left the Billy Joel record behind, but lunged through the entryway to grab it before the door clicked shut.





Chapter Nineteen


Frankie brought up the final slide of her PowerPoint presentation. Almost over. She’d been speaking for fifteen minutes and no one had jumped in with a question or moved in the lecture hall, as far as she could tell. She’d gained a newfound respect for her professors after about thirty seconds of staring into the harsh lights—lights that blurred faces and turned the audience of students into silhouettes. Her voice and the gentle whirring from the projection screen sounded too loud, her Queens roots apparent in every word she spoke, thanks to her nerves. She dried her palms discreetly on the skirt of her dress, the dress she’d bought with the intention of wearing to dinner with Porter.

Porter.

Her heart seized, making her stumble over a few words. She glanced over her shoulder at the screen to find her place again, breathing deeply through her nose to banish his image. For now. Forgetting completely would never happen and hoping would mean only more pain. She thought about Uncle Joe sitting in the back row, along with the guys who could manage to get the morning off. They were counting on her. She was counting on herself.

Almost over.

“I polled one hundred of my female classmates. Of those hundred women, twenty-two of them have been physically assaulted in their lifetime. Twenty-two. And the number could have easily, and often is, higher.” She gestured to the various charts illuminated behind her. “Of those one hundred women, one hundred have felt fear walking home in the dark or getting into a cab with a complete stranger behind the wheel.”

In the back of the hall, the sound of a door opening distracted her; a sliver of light came and went. She tried to ignore it and focus on her speech, but a tug in her throat prevented it. She squinted into the projection light and saw a figure that hadn’t been there before. Broad-shouldered and still, so still. Her pulse clamored, her eyes stung. It couldn’t be him. He didn’t even know the place or time of the presentation. And he wouldn’t do this to her. He wouldn’t put her through the heartache of the last few days and set her back again.