Cross My Hart, page 15
Five days since I offered to buy Gareth out of our business.
Four days since he agreed, even when he told me he didn’t want this, that he didn’t want us to ruin what we’d built.
Four days since I told him to stop being such an arrogant arse. I’m not going to ruin what we built; I’m going to make it stronger.
Better.
All on my own.
On my own.
I straighten, grabbing a glass of water as I pass the kitchen, collapsing on the sofa and staring at the television screen—it’s dormant, the pixels resting. I can make out my vague reflection, the pale suit I wear today showing like a smudge, my blonde hair like gold.
Eleven days since Jagger walked out of my hotel room and I slumped to the floor, the reality of my situation abundantly clear.
I did love him.
I loved him in a way that was shredding my soul to bits, that was burning me inside, that was making me feel like I couldn’t stand up straight.
This is so different to when things fell apart with Gareth. If there’s one thing to be grateful for in this mess, it’s the realisation that what I shared with Gareth wasn’t love. Not the kind of love that reaches inside of you and rearranges who you are. Not the kind of love that breathes fire into your cells and freedom into your bones.
Is that what I had with Jagger?
I close my eyes, blocking out my doppelgänger, my apartment, my life, my now.
I did.
It was.
It really was.
His failure to understand that doesn’t change what we felt. His inability to love me doesn’t make the love I felt any less real, any less potent.
It’s love.
I love him.
I love him, but that’s not enough.
He doesn’t love me—not in the same way I do him. Because on no planet, at no time and in no way would I have ever been able to walk away from him like he did me.
I would never have been able to turn my back on him, to see his face crumple, to hear his proclamation of love and act as though it changes nothing.
I would never have compared him and me to me and Gareth. The idea that he told Lorena he loved her, that he said to her what he might have said to me, that he felt for her what I wanted him to feel for me?
Repugnant.
He didn’t love me. He doesn’t love me.
I don’t doubt he’s been with another woman since me. Someone else has worshipped at the altar of Zeus, has lost her mind to his prowess and power. It’s been eleven days, and he’s Jagger Hart after all.
Nausea surfs my insides. I ignore it, rolling onto my side and squeezing my eyes closed. And, just like every night since I got back to Sydney, I sleep like the dead.
I sleep until dawn and then I go into the office despite it being Sunday and I focus on work, on my future—on a future that is just about me—and I force myself not to think about Jagger.
Not to think of him, not to wonder about him—to remember that he walked away from me just like Gareth did.
I force myself not to think about the fact I looked my nightmare in the face—and lost.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘YOU SAID IT’S GOOD?’
I blink, focusing on Theo, bringing myself back to the present. ‘Yeah.’
‘More than you expected?’ He’s staring at the golf course, the aerial shot showcasing it at dawn, the pale oranges and purples streaking across the sky.
‘The property has a shitload of potential,’ I say, my eyes shifting over the course, remembering Grace, the way her body backed into mine as I showed her how to swing the golf club.
But no memory of Grace is complete without the final one—the look of utter devastation on her face. Of destruction. Of brokenness. No memory of her can be enjoyed for its warmth and completeness when that hard edge of pain and hurt is right there, waiting to be remembered, to remind me what I did to her.
‘I’ve heard good things.’ Theo straddles the seat opposite me, his dark hair pulled up in a messy bun on top of his head. He hasn’t shaved in at least a week and stubble has turned into a full beard. His Greek heritage is so apparent.
I mull his sentence over, but don’t speak. I guess you could say I’m brooding. I’ve been brooding since I walked out of her hotel room, back to mine and slammed the door so hard a painting slid off the wall.
I flew back here telling myself I’d done the right thing. I flew back here so fucking angry at Grace for taking what we’d agreed to and trying to turn it into something else. I was livid! So fucking angry at her for changing the rules of what we were.
But also so in awe of her.
So in awe of how brave she was to admit how she felt for me, even when her heart was still so raw from that asshole Gareth. She did something I’ve never really been good at in my private life: she went way out on a limb, bracing herself for whatever my response was, knowing she needed to at least be honest with me.
She risked her own heart, even after what Gareth did to her.
And I walked away, just like I told her I would.
‘You getting Samson to run it?’
I drag myself back to this conversation, to Theo, to this moment in time and try not to think about the fact it’s been almost a month since I left Australia.
How is she?
Those words run through my mind every day, like a whispered invocation. How is she? How is she? How is she?
I wake up in the middle of the night, clutching at my chest, feeling like someone’s punched me hard in the gut, winding me, robbing me of breath. And then I remember.
I’m not under attack.
I haven’t been hurt.
I’m just missing Grace.
I’m missing her so much it’s become a physical pain.
‘Dude. What the fuck? You’re miles away.’
‘Samson, yeah.’ I pour a Scotch. ‘You want?’
He shrugs. ‘Sure.’
I slosh some into a tumbler. It’s good. Spiced, aged, heavy. I savour the flavour as it hits my belly.
‘So?’ Theo’s watching me. ‘What’s going on?’
Defensiveness curls around me.
I can’t talk to Theo about this.
About Grace.
I can’t have him tell me I’m being an arse. Or telling me I did the right thing.
I don’t need someone else in my head giving me their opinion on my life.
‘Nothing.’
His laugh is throaty. ‘Yeah, I can see that.’
Fuck. ‘Get out of my head, Theo.’
‘But it’s such a fun place to be.’ Sarcasm trips off his tongue easily.
I cradle the Scotch in my palm, staring out at Manhattan.
‘I wanted to travel. I watched Sex and the City and fell in love with Carrie Bradshaw’s New York.’
‘Samson’ll probably want to revamp aspects of the club,’ I hear myself say, like I’m my normal self, focused on business, totally unfazed by anything.
‘Sure.’ Theo’s not convinced.
Great.
‘This is about the wedding, right?’
I frown. ‘What wedding?’
‘Lorena’s? I got the invitation last night.’
‘Lorena’s getting married?’
Theo’s watching me like a hawk.
‘To Thomas Scott-Moore.’
I laugh softly. ‘They deserve each other.’
‘He’ll just have to get her to position his Zimmer frame before they fuck.’
I shake my head. ‘He’s worth a bomb.’
‘That’s all she cares about.’ I nod slowly. Theo’s right—but we’ve discussed Lorena’s failings ad nauseam. ‘I still can’t believe you gave her such a generous settlement in the divorce.’
‘It was worth it to make her go away.’
‘Then Lorena’s not the reason you’re walking around like it’s doomsday. So what’s going on?’
‘Nothing.’ I’m impatient now. Talking about Grace isn’t going to help. It’s not going to cover over this hole that’s developed in the region of my chest that makes me feel as though my soul’s being drained into the sidewalk.
‘Bullshit.’
He’s like a dog with a bone. ‘Have you spoken to Holden?’
Theo makes a noise of exasperation. ‘Nice subject change.’
I don’t smile. I can’t. I stare out at the city and imagine Grace in it. I imagine her smile as she looks up at the high-rises on a night like this, with snow falling gently from the sky, swirling its way to the ground. I imagine the wonderment on her face, the look of amazement. I imagine lifting her up, holding her to my chest and kissing her right in the middle of Times Square, surrounded by noise and bustle and action in every direction.
I imagine bringing her to my penthouse, laying her on the crisp black sheets of my bed, her skin and hair so pale in comparison, and it’s all I can do not to double in half. Needs and desire threaten to cut me off at the knees.
What I need is to get laid.
Katrina from downstairs would probably be up for it.
But am I?
The thought of kissing another woman is anathema to me. Making love to one even more so.
It’s Grace I miss. Grace I want to hold tight and lose myself inside. Grace I want to hear screaming my name at the top of her lungs.
But I can’t go back into her life just because I want to fuck her. That wouldn’t be fair on her.
‘He’s in Amsterdam,’ Theo says after a moment.
The certainty that I’ve been a pretty average brother to Holden makes me cringe inwardly. ‘He’s okay?’
‘I imagine he’ll survive,’ Theo drawls. ‘He’s gone into some kind of existentialist crisis about not being a true Hart.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. Who gives a shit about blood? He’s our brother.’
‘Have you told him that?’ Theo’s eyes are intent when they lock to mine. Guilt rumbles through me.
‘No.’
‘You should. He’s spent almost three decades believing we’re his brothers and Dad was his dad and now he’s grappling with this bombshell. His mother’s dead, he has no idea who his biological father is and the two guys he thinks of as brothers aren’t even related.’
‘Bullshit. We’ll always be his brothers.’
‘I know that and you know that but he’s having difficulty accepting it. He’s brooding all over Keizersgracht, frankly wishing he hadn’t been born.’
Silence descends, a silence of worry and sorrow. Our father made many decisions in his life that seem beyond comprehension. He was selfish and self-serving, so choosing to raise another man’s son as his own makes very little sense.
I let out a breath. A breath of discontentment. Holden, Grace—it’s all one knot in my gut and I can’t see a way through any of it. Snow continues to fall, faster now, flurries dancing beyond this office, glimpsed through the enormous windows beyond.
‘Anyway, why don’t you show it to me?’
I turn around, having zero clue what Theo’s talking about.
‘The golf course.’ His head is dipped, his eyes focused on the picture once more.
My body jerks with something like adrenalin and excitement. The very idea of going back, going to Australia, is like catnip. Because Grace is there. I could see Grace. Hell, she’s the realtor selling the damned place. It wouldn’t even matter if she didn’t want to see me! I could make her come up and show Theo around and then, when we were alone...
What, asshole?
Get her to put aside the fact she gave you her heart and you ripped it into tiny pieces? Ask her to forget the fact she’s in love with you, just because you want one more roll in the hay?
‘I thought you were working on the Santiago deal?’
‘Waiting on a building inspector’s report.’ He waves a hand through the air nonchalantly. The South American project is huge; Theo’s been working on it for three years and he’s almost got it over the line. ‘It’s going to be a week or so before I can do anything there.’
I don’t have to let her know. We could fly in, have a look around and fly out. She never needs to know.
My dick jerks angrily in my pants and my stomach rolls with nausea and disgust. Is this what it’s come to? Hiding out from a woman I really like just because she had the audacity to fall in love with me?
It’s for her own good, though. All of this is for her own good.
‘Okay.’ The word’s reluctant, but I nod. ‘Just for a few days.’
‘Sure, just for a few days.’ He mock salutes. ‘You’re the boss, Zeus.’
* * *
I’ve seen him behind my eyelids every night, every blink. I’ve seen him in my memories, my mind’s eye. He’s imprinted in my field of vision somehow.
I’ve seen phantoms of him, memories of him, and yet, staring at the picture of him now, my whole body seems to lurch a little sideways.
I glance up, checking where we are. Only a couple of blocks away from my meeting. I swallow, my gaze dropping to the phone again.
I follow the official Instagram account for Silver Dunes. Obviously. I mean, it just makes sense. When I’m selling a project I get completely absorbed by it—the operations, the marketing—everything. I need to know all the details of the place in order to be able to represent my vendors.
Scrolling through my feed without paying much attention to anything, I scroll past the picture initially. I’ve seen phantoms of him a thousand times in the thirty-one days since he left.
Thirty-one days of seeing him in my mind so often that I want to slap my forehead just to get him out, just for a moment.
At first I don’t react. I barely register that it’s actually him and not just an image my mind has thrown up.
I scroll a little backwards in my feed.
And my whole body tenses. Sweat beads on my brow and my fingers tremble as I lift the phone closer to my face.
Jagger.
I swallow. My throat remains bone dry. I press my fingertips to the outside of it, holding it, as though that will help, all the while staring at the picture. He’s not alone.
To his right is another man of a similar build but different complexion. Where Jagger is tanned and fair, with those spectacular green eyes, his friend is big and muscular, dark, with a thickly stubbled jaw, straight brows and an aquiline nose. His hair, which must be a few inches past his shoulders, is pulled up into a messy bun on top of his head. He has tattoos running down one arm, like a sleeve.
J Ryan Hart and Theodore Hart, of Hart Brothers Industries, have spent the last three days discovering all that Silver Dunes has to offer. Be like a Hart and come play on one of the world’s most highly rated courses. With this view—(swipe right)
I don’t swipe right. I jam my phone back in my bag, my pulse firing out of control. ‘Here’s fine.’ My voice is jerky. I pull cash from my purse and pass it to the driver, opening the door as soon as he’s pulled to the side of the road.
I’m still a block from the meeting but I need to walk. I need to walk and calm down, to get my pulse back under control, before I have to be Grace Llewellyn again.
I have to get my head sorted before I can be the most professional version of myself.
My legs are shaking a little as I walk. I get to the corner of the street and then succumb to temptation, pulling my phone out and staring at the picture of him.
He looks...so happy.
My heart drops.
I study his face for any sign of the pain I’ve been feeling, for any sign that he’s been even remotely miserable. There’s none. He’s tanned, relaxed looking, his hair close-cropped, his clothes impeccable.
I shake my head, sliding the phone away again, lifting my eyes to the intersection. Traffic zips past. I wait for a gap and then push out into it, walking across the road quickly, dipping my head forward.
I’m well prepared for the meeting. I know my stuff. You’d have to: bidding on the commercial sales for one of the hottest high-rises in town takes nous. Nous I have in spades.
But my mind isn’t on the job.
Not one hundred per cent. Not like it should be.
I get through the meeting. My prospective client is the CEO of a French investment company. He’s in his forties, I’d guess, with silver-grey hair, intelligent brown eyes and a nice smile. He seems impressed with my presentation but I’m pretty sure he’s not sold.
I need to get him over the line. I want this job.
‘Why don’t we go for a walk,’ I suggest, ‘and have a look at the precinct? You can get a feel for some of the other businesses that are thriving here.’
He regards me thoughtfully. ‘You have time?’
I realise then it’s after six. I shrug. ‘All that’s waiting for me at home is a half-eaten pizza and a neighbour’s cat I’m feeding.’
I smile to make it sound less sad than it is.
‘Then that sounds like an excellent idea.’
We stroll through the CBD and I point out recent developments, which shopfronts have recently changed hands and why. I’ve made it my business to know the commercial landscape of Sydney back to front. I live and breathe this market. Any question he has I know the answer to.
And as we walk and talk I feel like it’s closer to being a done deal. I tell myself I can breathe easy. Landing this client means I’m okay. That I’m still the same person I was before Jagger. Before Gareth left the business.
It means I can do this on my own.
It’s after eight by the time we’re done. He suggests dinner. I demur. I can’t. I can’t sit across from another guy—even a client—and share a meal. I’m not ready.
I part company with him and catch the bus home, so tired I feel like I could sleep for a week. I read somewhere that exhaustion is a part of heartbreak. It’s the body’s way of putting you into a kind of semicomatose state until you’ve had time to heal, and that absolutely feels like what’s happening with me.
