Andrew snorted. “Looks like he got that wish. Fine. I’ll deal with it first thing in the morning.”
“You don’t have to,” Shawn said, a look of discomfort flashing over his stupidly pretty face.
“I know,” Andrew said. “But someone has to, and it isn’t going to be you.”
He strode away, feeling exasperated, irritated—and kind of relieved to have a purpose. Derek and Shawn may not have wanted him around, but they still needed him to get them out of the shit they’d landed their company in while Andrew was presumed dead. He was needed. He had a purpose again.
Part of him registered that it wasn’t the most healthy way of thinking, but he discarded it. It was going to be all right. He just needed to relearn how to live his real life.
This… anxiety would go away soon.
It had to.
Chapter 13
It turned out that Shawn wasn’t kidding when he said that Caldwell’s people were now in charge of Rutledge Enterprises. Andrew spent the next few days alternating between reading the contract and—politely—arguing with Caldwell’s people.
Reading the contract was an exercise in frustration: he was torn between admiring Ian Caldwell for managing to sneak so many loopholes into the contract and being frustrated at the Rutledges for falling for it. Had he been there, he would have never let—
But he hadn’t been there.
No one let him forget that. Even though he didn’t live at Rutledge Manor anymore, Vivian’s ghost—and the island—seemed to follow him everywhere. The pitying looks were bad enough, but the curious ones were even worse. What was it like? Surviving a plane crash? Being stranded on a desert island for so long? Was it horrible? What did he do with his time?
The questions made him want to scream. He’d been trying so hard not to think about the island, but people kept reminding him of it over and over, their curiosity insatiable. What was it like? What was it like? What was it like?
It drove him crazy. It didn’t help that he still struggled with being around people, their gazes, their attention, their voices making his skin crawl. He kept waiting for the terrible disconnect to go away, wanting to feel normal again, but so far it hadn’t happened. He didn’t feel better. In fact, the knot in his chest seemed to become tighter with every passing day. He felt jittery and distracted, and half of the time he felt as if he didn’t know what to do with himself—in the most literal and physical sense.
Enough. He needed to focus on work.
Andrew left his office—his new, temporary office—and headed to his old one. It was occupied by the vice president of the Caldwell Group, who was performing the functions of the CEO while Ian Caldwell was incapacitated.
He wasn’t really looking forward to the conversation.
To be fair, the man was an experienced executive with a fantastic reputation in business circles, but Andrew wasn’t really in the mood to be fair. First he’d lost the company he’d slaved over for years to Derek Rutledge; now he’d lost his position of CEO thanks to Derek’s unwillingness to give a fuck about said company. Andrew had read the contract; he knew that had Derek bothered to read it, he would have seen the small print. But he clearly hadn’t given a damn, and now Andrew had to clean up after his mess.
Fuck, he wanted a drink. He wanted—
He wanted Logan.
Andrew cringed and shoved the thought out of his mind. Or tried to. He knew it would be back. It always was. God, he hated these needy thoughts that sneaked back into his mind every twenty minutes. He didn’t fucking need Logan. The sooner he forgot about everything that had happened on the island, the better. It hadn’t been real. This life was real.
Sighing, he murmured a greeting to the CEO’s assistant, a young, harried-looking blond guy. “Is he in?” he said, nodding toward the closed door.
The guy—Nate—pulled a face. “The demon? Is he ever not?”
Andrew made a sympathetic sound. He’d heard that Raffaele Ferrara was a nightmare to work for. The Italian was a major shareholder of the Caldwell Group and its vice president and COO. Only Ian Caldwell had more power in the company than Ferrara did. But while Ian Caldwell had the reputation of a demanding employer, Raffaele Ferrara had the reputation of a tyrant. His poor assistant looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
“Please tell him I want to talk to him,” Andrew said.
Nate nodded and pushed the button of the intercom. “Mr. Reyes wants to speak to you, Mr. Ferrara.”
A deep voice replied dismissively, “I’m busy. I don’t have time for him.”
Andrew flushed. This was his company, dammit. Had been.
“Don’t be a dick,” Nate said.
Andrew blinked, staring at him in amazement.
“You’re forgetting yourself,” Ferrara said in a very soft voice.