One to Chase (One to Hold 7)

Please come back. I need you.

Amy.

* * *

Amy

Standing in Sylvia’s empty condo, I don’t expect what happens to me. I said goodbye to Marcus on the street and pretty much ran away. After watching my two older brothers tamed by beautiful, amazing women, everything Marcus wants slammed down on me with unexpected force.

I used to have solidarity with my oldest brother. Patrick was born to be a daddy, have a family, and he’ll be good at it. But Stuart and I always shared the same opinion on the matter. Now he’s so damn different. What the hell is happening to everyone all at once?

So yeah, I’d run away again. So fucking sue me. It’s what I do. I’m not ready to drink the Kool-Aid and believe the lie. I’m still living in the Land of Reality, where bastards still exist and people you think you can trust still shit on you and walk away without looking back.

Then I unlocked the door to Sylvia’s condo.

Then I stepped into the kitchen.

Her mug was on the floor broken. My mug was on the counter half-empty and cold. Her voice still echoes in the air like nothing was creeping up behind her, hoping to steal her life.

She’d asked me about the gala. I asked her about her lunch date. Her breath became labored, and she turned her back to me. Then she fell.

Now I’m falling. I’ve crumbled to the floor, unable to catch my breath. I’m crouched against the wall holding my throat, eyes squeezed shut.

“Sylvia.” It’s a broken plea. I couldn’t help her. I couldn’t save her. Thank God I had my phone.

My phone is in my hand, and I’m texting. I don’t even know what I say. I only know I need him. I need help. I can’t stay here alone tonight.

* * *

Marcus

Amy sits on my brown leather sofa. She’s unusually quiet, her knees bent to her chest, still in the soft grey pants and dark tee. Her eyes fix on the black face of my giant television. I’d expected to be watching it all evening while I slowly got drunk. I haven’t even turned it on. Her hair is still in a messy bun with small bits loose around her face. She’s tired and vulnerable, and she looks like the best thing I’ve ever seen.

I’m working on getting some food in her. Mariska and I went to Snarf’s while they were at the hospital—Italian subs for the guys, a turkey and Swiss with avocado for Amy. Now I stand in my kitchen cutting the thick, seven-inch sandwich into four equal pieces, glancing at her occasionally.

Eschewing the whiskey (no need to go classic country anymore), I open a decent bottle of Chardonnay and pour two glasses. I’m a dick for being so happy she’s here after the shit morning she had, but fuck it. I’ve wanted her to spend the night with me since the day we met.

A scoop of chicken salad for each of us, and I take the two plates to the living room and set them on the dark mahogany coffee table. I’m headed back to the kitchen for our wine when she finally speaks.

“Your apartment is so cozy.” I love the sound of her voice, even now when it’s soft and a little fragile.

Turning back from the kitchen, I quickly inspect the large area. It’s predominantly hardwoods and overstuffed leather furniture. Books are everywhere, from fiction to leather-bound law books. “I pick up things that feel homey to me.”

“It reminds me of your office.”

That makes me laugh. We’re back to that old complaint. “I’ve already explained why.”

Her beautiful eyes blink up to me, and they’re a bit more relaxed. “Your office is an extension of your home because you’re a workaholic.”

“I don’t consider my job work.” I sit beside her on the soft leather sofa. “I like what I do.”

The smallest smile crosses her lips. “I know. I wrote your profile.”

Dammit. I want to kiss her and pull her onto my lap and spend the night making love to her. I can’t help feeling like we’re right on the edge of something big, and I’ll be damned if I let her slip away again. She looks down, that fragility returns, and I ease off the accelerator.

“See what you think of this.” I hand her a glass of wine.

She takes the delicate crystal and sips. “Mmm,” she nods. “Oak and concrete.”