Wherever It Leads (35 page)

“I’m scared of being weak, of not being strong enough to handle what life throws at me. That I’ll crumble under the pressure and let everyone down. I’m scared of being optimistic,” I continue, the words flowing from me, setting me free. Like an actor on stage getting over his jitters, the words pouring from me is cathartic. “I’m afraid to try to put too much stock in anyone or anything because I figure the next shoe is going to drop at any second. Like something bad is just waiting to devastate me.”

“That’s a shitty way to live.”

I shrug. “I’m learning to live with it. I’ve always had a little anxiety, but after this past year, it just got worse. So now I find myself waiting on the next thing to come along and knock me out.”

He drags me closer, burrowing his face in my hair. I love having him so close to me, feeling like he’d protect me from anything. That he could protect me.

“But, Fent, you make me happy.”

He presses a long, lingering kiss into the side of my head. I snuggle against him more.

“You make me happy too,” he whispers, his voice a little shaky.

“Do I?”

“You have no idea.”

“Good.”

I twist in his arms and rearrange us so that my arms are around him. We lie like that for a long time, the only sound our breathing and the fountain trickling in the corner. I begin to drift off when I hear his voice.

“Brynne?”

“Yeah,” I mumble, fighting to keep my eyes open. Despite my attempts, they grow heavier and heavier.

“I want to talk to you for a minute.”

“Okay . . .” I accept the fact that my eyes are going to have to stay closed, the relief in not trying to hold open the heavy lids is bliss.

He blows out a heavy, defeated breath and I struggle to come out of my twilight.

“I really want to talk to you. It’s important.”

“Okay.” But I don’t move. I figure he can talk and I’ll listen while I’m snuggled up.

“Can you sit up?”

“Yeah . . .” But I don’t. Instead, I drift off into a dream about a woman with an elephant necklace.

M
y hips rise, craving contact. Fenton’s hovering over me, teasing me, tempting me with every fiber of his being. He grins, that flirtatious, come-hither look that causes my core to clench every single time.

“You want to know?” he asks, his voice rolling past his lips. “You want to know, rudo?”

“I want everything,” I groan, pushing his hips towards me. “I want it all.”

“Do you?”

His face becomes fuzzy, his skin vanishing under my touch. He’s replaced by a stream of light and my eyelids flutter open.

I’m in his bedroom, the sunshine filtering in through the blinds. The fountain has been turned off and Fenton’s side of the bed is empty. I can smell his cologne in the air and smile as I close my eyes and let it permeate my senses. The notes hit every part of me, from my groin to my heart, and I know I’ve slipped too far into the rabbit hole to climb back out. I feel too good in his bed. I don’t know where this is going, but I’m on board, ticket in hand, heart on the line.

Rolling off the mattress and onto the floor, I notice his briefcase is missing. I swipe my robe off the chair in the corner and begin my search of the house for my man.

“Fent?” I call out, entering the living room. The sea is a brilliant blue, seagulls circling over the water. I could sit on the deck and watch it all day, and I just might do that if I can convince him to sit with me. “Fenton?”

I peek into his office and he’s not there. He’s not in the kitchen either, but there’s a note next to the Keurig.

Brynne,

I had to run to the office this morning. I’ll be back as soon as possible. Please be here when I return. I really want to talk to you.

Fenton

I run my fingers over the ink, his writing just like him—controlled, masculine, and striking. I slip it into the pocket of my robe and pop a coffee pod in the machine and await the delicious nectar of the gods.

Reading his letter again, something triggers a memory of him wanting to talk to me last night. An unsettled feeling washes over me. What would he want to talk about? Something in his tone last night right before I drifted off tells me it isn’t something I necessarily want to hear. He was too calm, too heavy, too serious.

I have no idea what he could want. Everything has been amazing.

Grabbing the steaming mug, I head back to the deck and get comfy in a chair. It’s so peaceful, the sun so high in the sky I’m guessing it’s closer to noon than an acceptable time to wake up on a weekday. A few people are on the beach below, walking a dog along the shore. They hold hands, letting their arms swing between them.

That’s what I want,
I think to myself.
Some day, when everything settles down, I want the ease of the couple on the beach. The comfort, the unhurriedness, the trust they seem to have.

Fenton has made me realize there’s so much more out there than I ever dreamed. He’s the hero in a movie, the dapper hunk that whisks you off your feet. The one all the girls want and somehow, he seems to want me.

No, he
does
want me.

That’s the thing—he doesn’t leave any doubts in my mind. I don’t question it like I did with men before him.

He. Wants. Me.

My lips twist across my cheek as I take a sip of my coffee and remember the way he looked at me from this very chair last night. I brush the lingering uneasiness out of my mind. Whatever he wants to talk about, we’ll discuss and deal with and move on.

A ringing sound chimes inside the house and I place my mug on the little glass table beside me. It rings again and I get up and venture back through the house. I try calling Fenton to see if I should answer, but it goes immediately to voicemail.

Standing on my tiptoes, I look out the peephole. A delivery guy in brown is standing holding an envelope. He goes to ring the bell again. I take a deep breath and open the door a sliver.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“I have a package for Fenton Abbott.”

“He isn’t here right now.”

The man glances at the envelope in his hand. “This doesn’t require a signature. Do you want to take it?” he asks impatiently.

“Oh! I . . . uh . . . sure.” He hands it through the crack in the door and scrambles back to his truck.

Locking up behind me, I head to the kitchen and toss it onto the counter. It slides across the marble and smashes into a basket of fruit, causing apples and pears to go rolling across the hardwood floors.

“Shit!” I scoop them up and inspect the damage. Kind of bruised, but not too bad. Popping them back into the basket, the label on the envelope catches my eye. It’s blue and white, a bold, official looking emblem that I think I’ve seen before.

A ball presses in my throat, a feeling of anxiety lodging itself in my windpipe.

I flip the manila envelope around until the label is facing me. There’s nothing outstanding about it, nothing that seems out of line. Just a package to Nzou Ltd in care of Fenton.

Shrugging and blowing out a breath of relief, I wander back through the house and take my place again on the chair. The sun is warm against my legs and face, but the wind coming over the water keeps it perfect. I soak up the rays, breathing in the fresh air, but I can’t knock the feeling of something being off.

My mind scrambles, trying to locate the source of the anxiety. No matter how long I think, what I think about, nothing sticks out. Not one thing.

I down the rest of my coffee and make a mental note to call my doctor and get another dose of the anti-anxiety medicine I was on for a while earlier this year. I haven’t needed them in a few months. I always try to not need them, to not depend on them, but sometimes it’s necessary and I don’t want this feeling to spiral out of control and leave me bedridden like it did before.

Heading inside to grab another cup of coffee, I figure I’ll go ahead and call the doctor now. Nip this in the bud. My phone is on the coffee table in the living room, so I grab it as I go through. With one hand, I search for my doctor’s number. With the other, I insert a fresh K-Cup and push the magic button.

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.