“Couldn’t remember what?” I ask her, desperate to know more. Desperate to know everything.
She shakes her head, and I hear a whimper as her body starts to shake again.
What doesn’t she remember from her childhood? And if she doesn’t remember her childhood, is there more she doesn’t remember? Am I a casualty of another story that passed through the cracks?
One day, I’ll ask. One day, I will tell her my full story, but right now, I just hold her in my arms and let her cry.
Because today isn’t about me.
Today isn’t about my need for truth.
Today is about realizing that sometimes you put your own shit down and pick up the load for someone else.
24
Skye
Days have passed since my meltdown. I’m back in his office and back to work.
Despite everything, it is a bit awkward. I sit directly across from him. I’m looking over the files for the purchase in Miami he’s going to make, and he’s looking over his own file.
I have no idea on what, but to be honest, I don’t want to know. I’m tired. My own issues are hovering over me like a black cloud.
Reaching forward, I move to grab a pen, but my hand connects with Tobias’s. It seems I’m not the only one who needs one.
We both freeze.
His fingers wrap around mine.
My head tilts up, our gaze locking. He looks at me with an intensity I have never seen or felt before.
I might be the sky, but he’s the sun. He’s burning me up.
A nervous energy begins to course through my limbs. Neither one of us pulls our hands apart. Nor do we stop staring.
We are both stuck in quicksand. If we move, one of us can go under.
The longer we are frozen in time, the heavier the air gets. It’s stifling. Filled with silent words and emotions that I can’t begin to comprehend. What is happening here?
We are at a crossroads.
This moment feels important.
As the seconds pass, they turn into minutes, yet neither of us speaks.
“You never finished telling me your story,” I finally say to break the silence that surrounds us.
He inhales deeply. His chest muscles expand. Leaning forward, he severs our contact. I miss the feeling instantly. He picks up the papers on his desk and pushes them aside, then he reaches for the decanter and pours himself a drink.
Interesting.
When he offers me one, I shake my head. I still have too much to do today, and seeing as I’m half his size and how heavy-handed he is with the scotch, I won’t be standing if I take him up on his offer.
Tobias lifts the glass to his mouth, takes a sip, and then leans back.
“It was a normal day like today or yesterday. The weather was chilly, and I remember thinking I couldn’t wait for winter to end so that I could go for a swim. It was still too early, and the water would be too cold. But it didn’t matter, even if it were summer, there would be no swimming that day. My father had a surprise for me.”
“What was the surprise?”
“Patience. All in good time.”
I have the desire to roll my eyes at his condescending tone, but I don’t. This story he’s telling me feels like it will forever change me.
This is the story of how Tobias became the man he is today, and I don’t know much about him. I tried to look him up, but his story comes from nowhere. He was raised in Florida, I read. His father was a successful businessman who passed away. His father’s ties to the cartel are notorious. His mother was apparently a relative of the notorious family. I’m not sure why he’s telling me a story about his youth, but it feels important, so I bite my tongue and let him continue.
“It was my birthday, you see. And my father had a surprise.”
Questions are heavy on my tongue, but I don’t speak. Instead, I wait for him to continue. As his mouth opens, his cell phone chimes. He grits his teeth, and a shadow of annoyance crosses over his features.
He looks down at his phone, and his jaw locks as his pupils scan whatever he is reading.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “Time to go.” He stands abruptly, pushing his chair back, the scratching of the chair against the floor severing the moment completely.
“Where are we going?” I ask, confused and clearly out of the loop.
“Miami.”
25
Tobias
Her mouth is open in an O shape, and her eyes go wide, blinking with bewilderment, and then staring at me intently. I like this look on her. She’s cute. The only look I like better is the one she gave me when she was basically fucking me at the desk with her eyes.
I noticed.
Not only did I notice, but I also wanted to act on it. By some crazy willpower, I didn’t. But fuck, did I want to bend her over my desk, hike up her skirt, and go to town. I need to fuck her out of my system. That’s the only way this need will go away. Since that isn’t going to happen, I’ll settle for the shocked look on her face. Always professional, she tries to school her features, but I catch it regardless. It’s the way her pupils dilate and her breath hitches. The average fool wouldn’t notice, but I’m not average.
I notice everything about Skye Matthews.
“Say what?”
“We’re going to Miami.” My nonchalant answer has her scrunching her nose.
“Why?” she probes.
“To look at the buildings.” I shrug as if her question is ridiculous. In fact, most people can’t fathom the crazy shit I do, and hopping on a plane to look at a building with nothing but forty-five minutes’ notice is not normal for them.
For me, it’s a Tuesday.
She looks at the papers in front of her and then back up at me. “Are we leaving now?”
“Yep.” I stand from the desk and walk toward the stairwell. No reason to pretend the elevator doesn’t bother me when she’s around and already knows it does. “You coming?” I ask over my shoulder.
“I didn’t pack,” she responds, still in the same place I left her, still staring at the mess in front of her before she starts to clean up and stand.
“You don’t need to.” My feet hit the steps, and then I hear hers echoing on the concrete to catch up to me.
“What do you mean, I don’t need to?”
“We aren’t staying overnight,” I inform her.
The sound of her heels hitting the floor stops, meaning she is no longer moving. I wait for her to speak, knowing full well she will.
“I don’t understand,” she finally says.
“What’s there not to understand? We are flying in and then flying out.”
“How?”
“On a plane,” I deadpan.
“Har. Har. Har. Obviously on a plane, but—”
“On my plane, Skye.” I look over my shoulder. “We are flying on my private jet to Miami, and then we will fly back home.”
Again, with the shocked face, mouth open, eyes wide. Yep . . . that look does it for me.
“Oh.” That is all she has to say, so I turn back and start to head down to the basement level where my men are.
This is the first time she takes the stairs, and from this vantage point, you can see each floor as you pass it.