“Maybe he lost the ledger since then?”
Ceiling: Really? This again? Hun, people lose things like their virginity or their car keys. People don't lose evidence in famous fraud cases unless it’s on purpose. Because you’re particularly dimwitted, let me spell that out for you—I’m talking about destroying evidence.
“Maybe he’s keeping it to ask me what to do with it?”
Ceiling: And in the almost eight years since he had it, has he ever once asked you what you want to do about it? On second thought, don’t answer that. You have conversations with inanimate objects. I wouldn’t put it past you to hallucinate conversations with Nash, too.
“If he's innocent, I shouldn’t have left that letter on his door. He didn't show up to our date, so I couldn't even confront him about the ledger like I'd planned. Then, he sent me straight to voicemail the fifty billion times I called him. And he hasn't brought me my lunch or notes in days.”
My emotions exceeded a single word, so I hadn’t bothered printing a new t-shirt since he left. I wore a plain t-shirt, feeling so unlike myself, it was almost embarrassing.
Office gossip placed Nash with Delilah in Singapore for a meeting.
I’d believed it… until I spotted Delilah yesterday, walking down the hallway, coffee cup in hand. When I asked her about Nash, she seemed surprised I hadn’t seen him, mentioning he’d flown in before her and she hadn't seen him since either.
I checked the flight logs for all the local airports, then all the ones in the state. Every direct and connecting flight from Singapore in the past five days had arrived.
Ceiling: Obviously, he's avoiding you. He deserved that note.
My feet dragged across the carpet with each step. I had carpet burns on them from pacing. Still, I sprinted to the door at the knock and swung it open.
Nash.
Relief swept through me like a current. The violent kind that pummeled your body, pulled you under, and dragged you places you didn’t want to go.
He waved a sheet of paper, looking more exhausted than I’d ever seen him. Frankly, a little smelly, too. His eyes dipped to my shirt, noticed nothing on it, and returned to my face.
A frown turned his lips down. “Before you speak, I wrote you a letter. This was before I got your letter, by the way, but I still mean every word of mine. I want to see your face when you read it.”
I traced him with my eyes, cataloging the wrinkled button-down, abandoned suit jacket, and slacks that had lost their pleating.
My lower lip folded into my mouth. Even disheveled, I wanted him.
Sighing, I yanked the letter from his fingers and scanned the first line.
You are flawed.
A hate letter?
I jerked my gaze up. “Are you serious?”
“Did you want me to send it to an editor first?” He seemed a little unhinged, the whites of his eyes peppered with red from lack of sleep. “Come on, just read it.” His hand raked through his hair. Once. “Please.”
It was his hands through his hair that undid me, but the please cemented it. I dropped my gaze back down to the letter and read.
You are flawed.
You talk to yourself.
You talk to the sky.
You know words that mean nothing to most people.
You don’t care about words that matter to everyone else.
You are harder on yourself than others.
You love the dark more than you love the light.
Your heart is too big, so you do stupid shit like give up food and shelter for a complete stranger to get a college degree.
You love small moments more than big ones.
You believe in magical words, yet you don’t believe in fate.
You are so fixated on the stars—whether or not they’re there—but to be fucking honest, the sky could be full of them or completely empty, and I’d still be looking at you.
You are flawed, but you're also perfect. (Of course, you don’t believe in the word perfect either.)
And if I could give you anything, I wouldn’t save you (from yourself or me). You’re more than capable of doing all the saving.
I’d give you the ability to look at yourself through my eyes. You’d see that you are not the storm. You are lightning in the storm. You are what pierces through the clouds and shines brightest.
You'd see exactly why I love you.
“Nash,” I started, unsure what to say.
I struggled to find words, swallowing each emotion as they took turns throttling me. His fingers reached for the letter when all I wanted to do was grab it, frame it, and make it mine.
I released it, because the idea of it ripping in my hands devastated me.
My eyes refused to leave him. He looked like a favorite memory, one you replayed until everything reminded you of it and became déjà vu.
Nash broke the silence with an infuriating, self-satisfied smile. “Yep.”
“Excuse me?”
“Just wanted to see your face as you read this. You still love me.”
“Still?” I shook my head. “I never said I love you.”
“You did. Not with your words, but with your actions. You put so much weight in words, but sometimes, the things you do say more than the things you say. See you tomorrow, Little Tiger. Shit’s about to go down.”
I stood there, slack jawed, clutching my door. He pressed a kiss to my temple and left. His whistles echoed down the hallway.
Ceiling: See? I told you he’s not avoiding you. You shouldn't have written him that note. You can be such an asshole sometimes.
Delilah walked into the penthouse, midway through my conversation with Chantilly. I spared her a glance and returned to the psycho sitting across from me.
She tucked a red strand of hair behind her ears. “We’ve been working closely the past two weeks.”
“Yes,” I dragged out. “You, me, and four other people.”
She spread her legs, an invitation. Did she really think I didn't remember her trying to accost me?
Her fingertips ran across her collarbone and circled the cross necklace around her neck. “I see you staring at me.”
“Only when I’m appalled at how quickly you’re able to run through millions of dollars in budget money.” I leaned back in my seat and drew up some documents, fucking exhausted with today. “Also, I won't ask you again to close your legs. I have to sit in this office for another three hours, and your pussy smells like a fish market.”
What she didn’t understand was, I had no use for someone who nodded every time I did. I have a shadow for that, and I sure as hell liked it more than I liked her.
Delilah cleared her throat and set Rosco down. He sprinted to his four-poster bed.
Chantilly tilted her chin up, cheeks flamed red when she noticed the company for the first time. “I have to check on something, um, on another floor.”
“You do that.” I motioned her to shoo.