Page 35 of More than Fiction (Misty Springs #1)

Corbin

She was off limits. A fleeting moment of weakness. Discipline was a cornerstone I built myself on, and Sophia had rattled my foundation to its core with one glance over her shoulder.

That was a mistake, one that could cost me everything.

At least it didn’t go any further.

I wanted it to go further.

So. Much. Further.

I sealed my fate with Sophia when I offered her the job in front of Landon’s family. Davis met her—lots of people met her—her employment was out in the open.

Unclasping her dress and watching it nearly fall off her sent me into a frenzy, one that eliminated all sense of reason and left me operating purely on instinct and want.

Then, like a cruel intervention from the corporate gods—or maybe God himself, because I didn’t deserve a happy ending—my phone rang, shattering the moment just as the last of my resolve slipped.

It was Louise. She’d called 911. Gram had fallen. She was heading to the hospital. The entire conversation ended any possibility of Sophia and me finishing what we started in an instant.

And, of course, Buzz was nowhere to be found.

What was he up to?

Eddie arrived immediately outside my building, and I slid into the back of the town car, speeding toward Mount Sinai Hospital.

The late-night hour got us there relatively quickly, and I hurried inside, the cold air cutting through my thin white shirt.

I didn’t even grab a coat in my rush out the door.

I was juggling too many flaming bowling pins—the new branch in Misty Springs, my future position as CEO, the fate of the company itself, the fate of Misty Springs at the hands of the Norwood family, Buzz, Gram, Sophia—I feared that one wrong move would send everything careening to the ground, setting my life up in flames.

The nurse, dressed in a soft pink uniform, greeted me as I crossed the threshold into Gram’s room with a reassuring smile.

“She’s stable,” the nurse said. “Nothing broken, just some minor swelling and bruising. She’ll be okay.”

Relief washed over me, though it barely loosened the knot in my chest. Gram was dressed in a mint-colored gown that looked impossibly soft, her small frame nearly swallowed by the hospital bed. An IV was taped to her thin arm, and the steady rhythm of beeping machines filled the room.

The sound sent me back to a different time, frozen in the sterile doorway of a different hospital, staring at the frail figure of my father. Machines surrounded him, too, but there was no softness there—just the stark reality of a man brought to the edge by his own choices.

The doctors called it a heart attack, the inevitable conclusion of cirrhosis eating him alive from the inside out.

Stress, overwork, and a bottle that never left his hand—they were his business partners, his family, his crutches, his escape.

He spiraled, taking everything with him, leaving me with only a bruised and tarnished reputation.

I blinked, forcing myself back to the present. Gram’s chest rose and fell steadily, her face serene even under the pale hospital light.

I tried to call Buzz half a dozen times, but my calls went straight to voicemail each time. Avoiding me was one thing. This was the last straw—the least he could do was be here for his wife.

“James?” Gram asked in a weak, groggy voice.

My father’s name—correction—my dead father’s name. She was having another one of her episodes. My heart cracked as I faced this version of her alone.

“It’s me, Gram. Corbin,” I replied gently.

I scooted closer to her bed, softly placing my hand on hers.

“James,” she said with effort, “you’re going to lose them.”

“Gram, you’re at Mount Sinai. You fell. ”

“That boy adores you. You’re all he has left. Don’t toss him aside like you did with Mary. He needs you.” Her eyes were closed, but her hand gripped mine tightly as she spoke to me like a memory. Like these words were rehearsed and repeated in the past, an echo of a conversation already spoken.

In an instant, I was ten, begging my mom not to leave us. She went with tears in her eyes and a Chanel suitcase in her hand.

I was thirteen, picking up empty bottles from the living room floor to hide my father’s shame from the cleaning lady and snuffing out a lit cigarette as he lay passed out on the couch.

I was fifteen, watching my father succumb to his poor decisions, without enough energy in his body to even say goodbye.

“Don’t leave me alone. I don’t like the beeps,” Gram’s soft voice murmured. This time, her eyes were on my face, studying me.

“I’m not going anywhere.” I forced a smile, though I was filled with dread.

Seconds passed, and Gram’s jumbled memories gave way to her soft, rhythmic breathing. I didn’t know what time it was when my eyes grew too heavy to keep open, but when the door to Gram’s room creaked open, and Buzz walked in, my anger snapped me awake—a living, breathing thing clawing at my chest.

I leaped out of my chair, quickly pushing him into the hallway, careful not to wake Gram.

“Hey,” he protested angrily as I shut the door to the room behind us. “I came to see my wife.”

“Yeah, it’s about fucking time you show up.” My voice was jarringly loud in the quiet hallway of the hospital. “Where have you been?” I asked, lowering my voice to a sharp whisper.

Buzz didn’t flinch. “I had some important meetings to take care of.” His tone was flat, dismissive.

“At…” I checked my watch, trying to keep my disbelief from boiling over. “Five a.m.? On a Sunday?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Buzz deflected, his tired eyes skimming the floor.

That stopped me. Buzz had never backed down from a confrontation before, not with me, not with anyone. He lived for conflict and thrived on dominance, yet here he was, folding in on himself like an overburdened structure .

It wasn’t just the late hour. Something in him had changed, something subtle but unmistakable. His face, once chiseled and sharp, was lined with fatigue. His shoulders slumped, and his usual commanding presence had shrunk, his hair thinning into a shadow of its former fullness.

For the first time, Buzz didn’t seem larger than life. He seemed small.

“You’re shutting me out, Buzz,” I said, softer this time. “You’ve been shutting me out for months. It’s like you want nothing to do with me anymore.”

“This has everything to do with you!” he snapped, his voice cracking, raw and unrestrained.

The words hung in the air before something even more jarring happened—a tear broke free and slid down his cheek.

Every muscle in me tensed.

Buzz Buescher didn’t cry. Not when his son died, not when his wife was diagnosed—never.

But there it was—a glimmering line cutting down his face, catching the sterile fluorescent light like a damning piece of evidence.

I felt unmoored, unsure of how to respond to this man, this vulnerable stranger, standing before me. Watching him felt like a jagged piece of my foundation broke loose, something integral that would alter my structure indefinitely.

“I have to go,” I muttered, retreating a step. “If you want to do something for me, take care of her.” I nodded toward Gram’s room before storming off.

I didn’t want to be here. I couldn’t be here.

I couldn’t face the scene unfolding before me or reconcile this broken version of Buzz with the indomitable force I’d known my entire life.

I needed space, an escape—my apartment beckoned like a safe harbor in a storm. But it wasn’t the four walls I was seeking.

It was Sophia.