Chapter 2 Noah

“She’s somewhere safe, that’s all that matters, and she’s mulling things over. She’ll be back when she’s ready. This is Olivia we’re talking about.”

I nod solemnly. She’s as stubborn as the day is long. And he’s right. She’ll be back when she’s good and ready. Probably with an iron-clad argument, ready to negotiate the terms of her uterus with gusto. I smirk at the thought. At first I figured she was staying with Camryn, but after ransacking her best friend’s apartment, my new guess is one of Manhattan’s five-star hotels.

“When you speak with her again, tell her to call me,” I hiss under my breath. Fred and I have always been on good terms—he was my father’s closest friend, after all—but my patience has run thin.

He nods. “Of course I will.”

Just then, Sterling approaches with that just-fucked look. You know the one. Mussed hair, wrinkled collar, shirt untucked, smug-ass grin on his face like he just got his nuts off. The fucking bastard.

“Well, that was quick.” I check my watch. “If you need lessons in stamina, all you have to do is ask.”

An elbow in the ribs kills my smile. “Fuck off, Noah. We both know why you’re in a foul mood, and I don’t blame you.”

Fred excuses himself as Sterling and I trade jabs.

“So, was she fun?” I ask as we walk toward the exit.

“Of course,” he replies. But his eyes are on the door and there’s no conviction in his voice.

I’ve been there. Quick, unmemorable fucks with girls whose names I couldn’t even recall a mere twenty-four hours later. Which is all the more reason why Olivia’s disappearing act feels like something had been ripped out of me.

Sure, we had our ups and downs, but I miss the banter, miss the way I could rile her up with the slightest of provocations. I just missed her.

I’m not looking forward to going home alone. The apartment feels stale without her. She hadn't even been there long, and already the place felt empty and void without her. Like all the warmth and charm has been sucked out by a vacuum. Only her scent lingers, and it makes me ache for her even more. Just when I started to get used to a woman’s touch at home, it was all ripped away. And that damn teapot she got us as a housewarming gift sits unused on the kitchen counter, mocking me. Why give me a peace token if she was just going to run out on me?

Sinking down onto the vinyl backseat of a cab, I let out a sigh. I’ve been hounding Fred about where she is, but the truth is, I don’t care. Well, I do care—every time I turn around and see she’s not there, her absence hurts all over again. But what I really want is to know why she ran out on me. Left me standing on the beach like a fucking idiot, waiting for our ceremony to start.

My head is swimming with questions, with anger and confusion and loss, and there’s an unexplained ache in my chest. It’s eerily familiar. Almost like the relentless throbbing I felt when Mum died. The kind of pain that fades a fraction with each passing day, but never goes away completely.

“You okay, buddy?” the cab driver asks, peering at me in the rearview mirror.

“I’m fine. Sorry.” Shit, I spaced out. I’ve been just sitting here in the back of his cab.

“You have somewhere you need to be?” he asks.

“Yes, home.” I give him the address, bewildered about the fact that I’ve started thinking of our shared penthouse as home.

My phone rings. My heart rate kicks up—for a second, I wonder if it’s Olivia. But the name flashing on my screen for the third time today quickly informs me otherwise.

“Hello?” I mumble, deflated.

“How are you holding up?” Rosita asks.

She’s been calling every couple of hours, but this is the first time I’ve answered. Something about discussing it out loud—let alone with another person—might make this whole nightmare too real. But the sincerity in her tone is genuine and honest, and I suddenly feel like a dick for putting off her calls.

“I’m okay, I guess. Just confused.”

She sighs, and I can imagine her nodding her head, agreeing with me.

“When I learned you were getting married, I wasn’t sure what to think of this whole arrangement, but I figured if it was what your father wanted, it was for the best. He was a good man. And he loved both you and Olivia.”

“Yeah,” I say, agreeing with her. But in times like this, where everything seems so fucked, it makes it hard to figure out what Dad was thinking.

I hear a rush of static as Rosita takes a deep breath. “But the more I got to thinking about it all, I realized I liked the idea of you getting married. Someone to cook you breakfast in the morning, someone to make sure you’re okay. A wife getting after you to make sure you take your vitamins. I liked the idea.”

I chuckle at her. “I can take care of myself, you know?” Rosita’s always been such a mother hen.

“I know, hijo,” she replies without missing a beat. “I know you can. But I liked that you wouldn’t have to.”

“You do know I was left at the altar, right?” As sweet as her sentiment is, the timing is horrible. Besides, it’s not like Olivia is the doting, domestic type, bringing me slippers and serving me breakfast in bed.

“Of course I do. What I’m saying is that even though your ego is bruised, you need to take a deep breath and figure out why she left. See if there’s something you can do to fix this. Because I really think the two of you could work.”

I swallow the boulder in my throat. The only time Rosita has really seen Olivia and me together was at her daughter Maria’s birthday party. A rare smile graces my lips at the memory. It was a fun day. Navigating Rosita’s enthusiastic extended family with my timid Snowflake by my side.

“I will listen to every word she says, I promise you that.” Whenever Olivia gets around to coming back. If she comes back.

“Okay. Be good. Love you.”

“Love you too, Rosie.” I stuff my cell back in my pocket and hand a twenty to the cab driver as he rolls to a stop in front of our building.

Upstairs, I toss my keys in the wooden bowl by our penthouse door and wander inside. I’m really not looking forward to sleeping alone tonight. I consider heading back out, maybe to the bar down the street to drown my sorrows in a glass of fine whiskey. I flip on the light—and I freeze.

Olivia is sitting on the couch. Her hands are folded in her lap, and she looks tired. Her dark blond waves are disheveled and that glow in her cheeks is gone.

“I need your help,” she says.

Has she been waiting for me? How long? And is that all she has to say? Four simple words . . . when four thousand wouldn’t be enough. And she’s asking for a favor?

My jaw tightens as disbelief darkens into anger.

“First, I need some answers,” I demand.