The Girlfriend (The Boss 2)

“No,” I said firmly. “No, you can’t think like that—”

“I bloody well can!” He shouted, and I jumped back in surprise. He looked at me, his eyes rimmed with tears. I knew he was ashamed of himself; he didn’t like being out of control.

He took a breath and calmed some. “I’ve been dealing with this for a lot longer than just today. I’m out of patience, and I feel like I’m out of time.”

“You’re not. Look, this is really dangerous. But you said yourself that your wealth gives you advantages other people don’t have.” He didn’t want to be comforted, but I couldn’t stop myself from trying. “You’re allowed to be afraid. And you’re allowed to cry about this. But you have to remember that when you’re talking about cancer studies and numbers and percentages, they’re talking about people in the real world.”

“And I’m not living in the real world?” he asked testily.

“I may have worded that wrong.”

He nodded. “I am certain that you did. My wealth does not exempt me from death, Sophie. I’ve only got this one world, and it is incredibly fucking real to me. If this is a problem for you, then I suggest we work out a different arrangement than the one we have.”

Okay. I deserved that.

When we got back to the house, he went straight to his den and shut the door. Since he hadn’t spoken to me since the car, I was pretty sure that meant he wanted time alone.

I went to the living room on the second floor and turned on the television, flipping through channels without finding anything familiar to watch. I ended up laying on the couch, dozing off, and flipping through channels. If we had been in New York, I could have walked somewhere. Maybe gotten a coffee and cooled down. But here, I didn’t know where I was, and I didn’t even have the right currency yet.

I felt trapped and lonely, and shitty over what I had said. After two hours of that, I decided I had to at least try to talk to Neil.

I started hearing the music about halfway up the stairs. The Smiths. Well, at least it wasn’t depressing.

I knocked on the door, and raised my voice to be heard above the music. “It’s me.”

“Come in,” he called, but he didn’t sound too thrilled.

Squaring my shoulders, I pushed the door open. “So... I think this is the part where I apologize for being such an asshole.”

Neil was slumped down on the leather sofa, a glass in his hand and a half-empty bottle of something amber on the floor beside his foot. “Asshole wouldn’t have been the word I used, but if that’s what you’re comfortable with, I won’t argue.”

“Gee, thanks.” I didn’t know if he was supposed to be drinking or not, but I let it go for now. I hovered inside the door. “And I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole about your money. I need to be more mindful about the fact that our experiences are different. And that you’re going through something I don’t understand. I couldn’t possibly understand it. I know that every time I say something about your cancer, I’m dismissive. It’s not because I don’t care about you. I just don’t want to face the truth.”

“That I might die?” he asked, pointedly fixing me with his gaze.

“Yes.” It was blunt, but there it was. “I am doing my patented Sophie Scaife avoidance technique, wherein I ignore anything unpleasant in the hopes it will just go away.”

“I seem to recall this technique blowing up in your face just a few weeks ago.” There was an undercurrent of scolding in his tone that I very much deserved.

“I’ll learn. Eventually. I promise.”

He patted the sofa beside him. It’s one of those pieces of furniture that looks like it’s too modern to be comfortable, but it was actually quite nice. The wide, square cushions were surprisingly squishy, which made it a little difficult to not topple over and lean against him. I kept my feet flat on the floor for stability.

“I know that you’re not used to my lifestyle,” he began, his deep voice low. “And I know it might seem like I have access to some magical font of medicine that the rest of you puny mortals do not.”

I was glad he could at least have a little bit of a sense of humor about it.

“But I’m scared, Sophie. Money does not guarantee immortality. My father was proof of that. He died in his fifties. In three months, I’ll be forty-nine. And for the past four years, I’ve been living with a ticking clock.”

“Is that why everything has been moving so fast between us?” I couldn’t help but think about his admission in New York, that he’d proposed to Elizabeth out of a need to control his life.