Page 49 of Fierce Love (Tucker Billionaires)

Chapter Forty

Nathaniel

D uring the last week in the office and at home, Hollyn has been on edge.

Filming is the only time where she seems able to settle into some version of herself that I don’t find concerning.

The one time I tried to ask her what was going on, she said she was working up the nerve to talk to me, but she wasn’t quite there yet.

I wasn’t sure how to take that when she said it, and I’m still not sure how to respond as we drive to her aunt’s apartment on Saturday.

Whatever is going on in her head is obviously causing her a lot of anxiety, and I just wish she’d spit it out.

But I’ve also learned that patience goes a long way with Hollyn.

When I push too hard, she backpedals, so I can pretend to be cool, calm, and collected, while the opposite emotions rage inside me.

“Do you have a plan of attack for this?” I ask as I park in the lot behind the apartment building.

“I’ll do all the personal stuff—the rest of her clothes, knickknacks, sentimental pieces I haven’t dealt with yet. She kept a lot of old bills and whatnot that need to be shredded. It’s mindless work, but if you don’t mind…?” She opens her car door and climbs out.

“I can feed paper through a shredder, no problem. Just point me in the direction of whatever stack I can tackle.” I hold out my hand for hers as she rounds the vehicle.

A man and a woman climb out of Owen’s security car and follow us toward the building.

To make sure their focus is on the right place, we’re supposed to pretend they aren’t there.

I find that much easier when they’re in the car, but I know this building is a hotspot of potential activity against me or Hollyn.

I haven’t said anything to her, but there have been a couple of attempted break-ins at the building.

The area is rough for Bellerive, so it could be a coincidence, or it could be Mickie Davis at work. Hard to say.

When Hollyn uses her new key to unlock the door, I step through first. The living room is covered in clothes, papers, old seasonal decorations—more stuff than it feels possible for this apartment to hold. Verna never seemed like a pack rat.

“Did it look like this when you left?” I ask. “Where did all this come from?”

Hollyn sighs behind me. “I’m going to try not to take that personally. Kinsley wasn’t keen to help, so I was cleaning out the mess on my own. There was a storage unit in the basement that I cleaned out and brought up here.”

“I wasn’t judging. I was assessing. You left because your parents broke in, so I wanted to make sure it looked ransacked before you came to live with me.”

She lets out a little laugh and slides her arms around my waist. I slip my arm over her shoulders.

“Yes,” she says, “this chaos was all me. I’m surprised you don’t remember from the other times you visited.”

“Too focused on other things.” And I’m sure it wasn’t this bad then.

“Do I need to make you focused on other things this time too?” She glances up at me from under her lashes.

“Unless you want Kinsley to think we did nothing today but have sex on every conceivable surface, we should probably do some of this first.” I gesture to the piles of papers, clothes, and other items strewn around the living room. “Are the bedrooms clear?”

“Sort of,” Hollyn says, stepping away. “At least of papers and clothes. Pictures, souvenirs, letters, and stuff like that, I’m going to try to handle.”

“Can I clear out some of these decorations? Take them to the bin outside?”

“Sure,” she says with a decisive nod. “Unless there’s any you want to keep for your house?”

I don’t , but if she needs me to keep some, I will. I slide her a look, and her lips quirk up as though she can read what I’m thinking.

“That was an offer, not an expectation,” she clarifies.

“I’m good.” I grab a garbage bag from the box near the door.

“If you can shred her old tax returns and bills and whatever else is in the filing cabinet when you’re done, that would be such a help.”

“As you wish, my love,” I say, and I bow with a flourish.

She laughs and gives me a quick kiss before heading to the back bedrooms. I spend the next little while making several trips to the dumpster with decorations, occasionally stopped by neighbors who are appalled that I’m throwing out stuff that’s so useful.

In the end, I agree to pile some of the stuff in better shape at the entrance with a Free sign on it.

When the living room starts to look livable again, I take in the filing cabinet tucked into a corner near the window and try to remember whether her aunt had it when Hollyn was a teen. I grab the shredder from the center of the room, and I drag a chair over to the cabinet.

Hollyn is still in one of the two bedrooms, and I start taking out files, giving them a cursory glance, and feeding them through the shredder. I’m not very far when I start to second-guess myself.

“You don’t need any of this?” I call to Hollyn. “This tax return is from last year.”

“Oh,” Hollyn says, appearing in the doorway to the short hall that leads to the bedrooms. “I do have to file one more return, I think. Keep that. And maybe anything else that might be important for her final tax return?” Her voice grows thick at the end, and her chin wobbles. She has a stack of photos in her hand.

I leave the filing cabinet to cross the room, and I drag her into a firm hug. She clings on to me, and I run my hand along her hair, smoothing it down.

“I really hate this,” she whispers.

“I’ll make a stack of any papers I think you should keep, and I’ll hold my questions until the end to make it easier on you. Then you’re not making constant decisions for me as well as whatever you’re working on.”

“Thanks,” she says, pressing her cheek firmer against my chest. “It feels like I’m erasing her, and there’s just so much history in this place.”

“You’re not,” I murmur. “She’ll live on in all the stories we’ll tell our kids.

All the photos we’ll keep. Love means we’ll always hold space for those people in our heart.

The physical and material things might be gone, but the person they were, what they meant to us, they’re still here. I really believe that.”

“Oh my god,” Hollyn says, her voice thick. “Nate, you need to go into business mode, or I’m going to be sitting on the floor, bawling my eyes out instead of getting this done.” She sniffs and steps away. “I need you to be the objective, detached one. Because I don’t know if I can.”

“I can do that,” I say, rubbing her back. “If you’re undecided about something, come set it next to me, and I’ll make the choice. I’ll activate practical, business-minded Nathaniel.”

She rises on her toes and kisses my cheek before wrapping her arms around my neck. Her fingers weave through the short strands at the back of my head, and she releases a contented sigh next to my ear. “You are literally the best.”

“You’re not alone in any of this, Hols. I’ll be whatever you need whenever you need it. Say the word, and it’s done.”

“I love you so much it’s ridiculous.”

I squeeze her tight and savor the feel of her pressed against me. Those words are so rare that every time she lets them out, they settle over me like the warmest, softest blanket. Maximum comfort, even if what happens after Posey’s wedding is still very much up in the air.

“Back to work?” I murmur.

“Thirty more seconds of this,” she says, holding me close, “before I’m ready to go back to that.”

A few hours later, I’ve cleared out the top two drawers of the cabinet, but when I tried to move the cabinet toward the door, something heavy was still in the bottom, somehow.

No documents predate Hollyn leaving at the end of high school, so I’m pretty sure she must have added this organizational system after Hollyn left.

I tip the cabinet from side to side. There has to be a way to get into the bottom section, but I don’t see how.

I go through the empty top drawer and second drawer again. Feeling around the edges, I snag on something. Over the edge, I see a mound of tape, and I gently pry it off with my nails. A key pings on the metal of the middle drawer, and a sense of foreboding settles in my stomach.

The only reason I can think of that Aunt Verna would need a locked compartment would be for secrets she was either keeping for Mickie or from Hollyn. I’m tempted to call Hollyn, get her to sit with me while I figure this out.

I glance toward the hallway that leads to the two bedrooms. Hollyn has been back and forth a few times while she sorts clothes to donate, knickknacks to keep, random photo books, or piles of stray photos.

Last time she was out here, she said she’d stumbled on some letters her aunt had been writing to a man in England when she was younger.

Biting my lip, I take the key, and I examine the filing cabinet, looking for a place to slot it in. Maybe it’s not even for this filing cabinet?

When I slide the cabinet forward, I see the lock at the bottom. Tiny. Easy to miss if you don’t know it’s there. I drag the cabinet out more, and I slot the key into the space.

The connection is stiff, as though it hasn’t been used in a long time, and with a strong flick of my wrist, it clicks open.

The bottom of the cabinet springs open, and I’m momentarily dumbfounded by what’s there—cash. So many large bills, disorganized and scattered, as though someone threw them in. When I push them back, there are manilla folders, several of them, but I feel that same hesitation.

I should call Hollyn.

But if it turns out that Aunt Verna wasn’t as squeaky clean as Hollyn always thought, it’ll ruin the memories Hollyn has of her aunt, destroy the image she grew up with.

Aunt Verna wasn’t perfect—far from it—but she was the only family member Hollyn ever had in her corner in any way. I can organize the money, shred anything incriminating, and Hollyn would never need to know.

The stiffness of the drawer makes me wonder, though.

Whatever is in here has to be old enough to cause a bit of friction.

I tug out the first manilla envelope and slide out the contents.

Legal papers. I scan the typed documents and discover that they aren’t linked to Mickie, like I expect, but to Aunt Verna.

When I check the date, my chest feels like it’s about to cave in.

Holy shit .

Instead of reading any more, I reach into the drawer and pull out the other manilla folder. One after another, I slide papers out—legal documents, court cases, contracts—a picture starting to form.

A sharp queasiness is sloshing around in my gut, urging me to read more, making me wish I could read less.

“Hols,” I call, the raspiness in my voice unmasking the torrent of feelings spiraling inside me. “Hols!”

“Is something wrong?” Hollyn’s in the entrance to the hall, a frown marring her gorgeous face.

“I don’t understand what all this is,” I say.

But I do. It’s betrayal of the highest degree.

She crosses the room, and when she sees the documents—contracts, NDAs, court documents—in my hands, all the color drains from her face. Her hand lands on the arm of the chair I’m in.

“Oh my god,” she says. “Where did those come from?” Her knees seem to give out, and she starts to collapse.

The papers fall from my hands, scattering across the floor as I catch her and draw her onto my lap, cradling her close.

“What the fuck is that, Hols?” I ask, searching her face, my palm on her cheek, forcing her to look at me while I try to determine what I should be thinking or feeling.

“I can explain,” she whispers, and she closes her eyes. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to explain.”