“I’m sorry,” he said again.
Then he disappeared. Out the same door as his father. Out before I had the chance to say a single word. Before I had the chance to say goodbye.
Chapter 2
I WAS TIRED. I WAS whiplashed. I was confused and upset. And for one of the first times in my entire life, I didn’t have a place to go.
For the next few hours, I wandered slowly around Nick’s apartment. Keeping an eye on the front door at all times. Feeling more and more like some kind of intruder as the minutes rolled by. I just didn’t feel right being there, somehow. It didn’t matter that I’d come by invitation. It didn’t even matter that the invitation had come on the heels of a strategic eviction by Nick’s own hand.
This was his place. Not mine. His. In times of stress, I was the one who should take to the streets—not him. Especially after what his father said to him.
Especially after what he said about his father...
It was a testament to how gut-wrenchingly terrible a person Mitchell Hunter was, that in a way, I wasn’t surprised. Nick’s mother had moved away after the divorce (a divorce in which Mitchell made sure he got full custody of Nick), so on the rare times that Nick came home for the holidays from boarding school—the two of them were unsupervised.
Late in his adolescence, he had gone through a ‘rough patch.’ Acting out. Mindless feats of rebellion. Forming frivolous attachments, while avoiding any relationships that might actually matter. The kinds where he had to let his guard down and actually trust. All tell-tale signs.
As soon as he was old enough, father and son parted ways. Nick moved out to his own apartment in the city, and now the only time the two of them ever talked, was either in public or in front of members of their staff.
In a way, the pair of them fit that abusive stereotype to a T.
But at the same time, I couldn’t help but be shocked. The Nick I knew would never let himself get taken advantage of by anything or anybody. He was quick on his feet, and even quicker with his hands. It was hard to imagine anyone getting the drop on him.
Let alone repeatedly. Let alone his own dad.
The thought broke my heart and made my blood boil all at the same time. That anyone would dare raise a hand against him. That anyone would think to hurt him.
And knowing Nick so well...I was sure he’d never fought back.
Mitchell might be able to strike his son, but I’d bet my life that Nick had never once been able to return the favor to his father.
Nick used words to hurt people. He used money, and influence, and power. He never used violence. It was too blunt a force. Too easy a tactic. The only time I’d ever seen him swing a fist, was when a paparazzi started deliberately crowding the Duchess of York into a rope line, and even then, it took quite a while to get him there.
Maybe this is why. Maybe he knows the feeling a little too well...
When I could pace no longer, I planted myself on the living room couch, and gazed up in dread at the clock. The hands were getting closer and closer to twelve, and still, there was no sign anywhere of Nick. According to Mitchell, we were supposed to be meeting with Harold Oakes—his chief PR strategist—at noon to discuss preliminary plans to move forward.
I didn’t want to imagine what might happen if we were late.
Another twenty minutes went by, and just when I was panicked enough to actually consider going out to look for him, there was a metallic ding at the end of the hallway. A second later, a key turned slowly in the lock, and the door pushed open.
Nick froze in place when he saw me, hovering mid-step like a guilty child. His cheeks blushed to high heaven, and he quickly dropped his eyes to the floor—sp
illing his hair in between us like some kind of protective shield.
“Hey,” I said softly. Probably best to initiate the conversation myself. He was clearly in no condition to do it. “I was beginning to think you’d left the country.”
It was true. Knowing Nick, the sky was literally the limit. The guy had a tendency to run, and given the conversation we’d just had, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d turned up in Bermuda a month later—sporting a pirate beard and a mai tai.
“No, I uh...” He raked a hand back through his hair, still unable to look at me. “Sorry, Abby. I just needed to clear my head.”
I nodded hastily, staring back with wide eyes. Of course he did. I just wished he hadn’t felt the need to vacate the premises to do it.
“Yeah, no, that’s...that’s perfectly understandable.”
An awkward silence fell between us. We lingered in it for a moment, each trying to get our bearings, before we both started talking at the same time.
“I’m really—”