Page 25

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

HANK

“Approved answers!” I whisper-hiss at Angie as I read over the list on my phone. “An entire legal department came together to script us approved answers. This is far more serious than I understood.”

My sister is helping me as I haul my exhausted, confused butt to the press conference, and we’re walking down the corridor of a generic office building. Even after two nights of recovery, I’m still disoriented by civilization.

“Presumptuous of them,” she says as she straightens her tie, “considering no one asked you about it.”

“Honestly, it’s a bit relieving to have a script,” I mumble as I scroll. “They want us to say we were trying to help a bird that was injured on the raft, and that Elliot slipped and released the catch by mistake. Then I jumped in to save him.”

“And why does any of that matter?”

“I guess it’s a story. Wholesome, unlike the hostage-taking rumors.”

“Maybe it makes people like you because everyone likes birds,” she adds. “Well, nearly everyone. What’s the explanation for why you didn’t notice the dock?”

“We are to make no mention of the dock.” I scoff as I continue reading. “We’re supposed to find a way to praise the pristine natural beauty of the baronet’s home? That’s absurd.”

“Are any of the approved answers true?”

“ We kept each other alive with ingenuity and teamwork,” I read. “That’s technically true.”

“Ingenuity, teamwork, and a little butt stuff.”

I groan under my breath. Yesterday, I confessed to her that I had been sleeping with Elliot on the island, and ever since talking it out, I’ve been self-consciously eager to see him.

When I try to sort my emotions, though, I get flustered.

Overwhelmed and a bit hysterical, which only makes sense, considering I spent the better part of this month on the edge of death.

I need to ignore sentimental or romantic notions. Elliot doesn’t resemble what I’m looking for in a partner, and he’s certainly not looking to me for a relationship, either. We’ve been clear about our intentions and our boundaries. End of story.

On top of everything else, the press conference is the last thing I want to be doing today. But when your boss calls and says you’re needed, and you’ve already caused a national media scandal to the company’s detriment, it’s hard to say no.

Not to mention the residual guilt from having slept with his son.

I rub my hand over my smooth face, grateful to have regained my comforts, at least. I’m in a simple gray suit, meant to be worn but not noticed, and I’m sporting my favorite tie, the green one the shade of a mature Oregon Boxwood leaf.

Hopefully, I’m put together enough to distract from the weird red spots on my neck and the scratches under my right eye.

Then I turn, and I see him.

It’s Elliot.

He’s walking toward me, and hopeful light fills his expression, his smile widening.

He’s still got his beard, untrimmed, but he’s put on a nice shirt and trousers, worn with a pink scarf that hangs like a tie.

Behind him, there’s a pretty woman his age, dressed in a lacy black skirt and a white top. Taylor, I assume.

“Your face!” Elliot says. He wiggles his hands in my direction as he approaches. “How did I forget about that face!”

I chuckle, embarrassed, and Elliot pulls me into a hug. It’s warm, and I feel an urge to hold him closer, brush my lips over his, but I quickly squash the instinct.

As we stand close, the connection from the island stirs beneath the surface, an energy that hasn’t faded.

He must feel me tense, because he eases back the rest of the way. “Angie!” he says suddenly, turning to my sister without skipping a beat. “You must be Angie.”

“Hi, Elliot.”

“Hug?” Elliot asks, and Angie hesitates, then nods.

“Sure.”

Elliot gives her a loose hug. “It’s so cool to meet you,” he says, and she pats his back as he releases her.

“Sure. You, too,” she says evenly, but I know she’s pleased.

Taylor steps forward. “And I’m Taylor,” she says.

Angie and Taylor shake hands as they exchange smiles. I greet Taylor, too, but my eyes quickly move back to Elliot.

Recovered, he looks even more youthful. Clearly younger than me when we stand next to each other, I realize. Although no one will be looking at us and thinking about it that way, hopefully.

“You look like you’re doing well,” I tell him. “I can barely shower without needing a nap.”

“I’ll likely collapse again in a few hours,” Elliot answers. “Did you get these canned responses?” he adds, indignant.

“At least it’s all fairly bland. And they say this press conference will put an end to the media speculation.”

I assume Elliot must want that, too, since he’s here. He’s not inclined to do favors for his family, although he did text that the return home has him feeling sentimental.

Taylor flips through her phone. “I’ve been monitoring social media so Elliot doesn’t have to. It’s generally positive since the rescue. People who thought you dismembered each other have been proven wrong. Gay cannibals even stopped trending.”

Elliot smiles at me again, but I don’t let my guard down. His father is nearby, and I can hear media filing in through the front entrance.

He reaches out, carefully resting a hand on my elbow to comfort me. “Don’t worry,” he says. “This will be easy. You’re a professional, and I know how to keep up appearances when I need to.”

It’s at that moment that his father emerges around the corner. My boss, Darryl Peterson, has on a suit fit for a funeral, and there’s a severe cut to his serious expression.

“There you both are,” he says, and Elliot has already retrieved his hand.

His father can’t know what happened between us. I have to act normal, even though moving away from Elliot bothers me.

“Mr. Peterson,” Angie says.

“Hi, Dad,” Elliot says blankly, and Taylor looks up from her phone with a nod.

“Hi, Darryl.”

He frowns, clearly not like being called that by one of his son’s friends, but turns his attention to me and Elliot. “You received the talking points?”

“Received,” I confirm. It’s in my nature to be polite, and the man is my boss, but I also now know that he’s been a poor father to Elliot. It clouds my usual sense of professional respect.

“It’s been a horrible fright for everyone involved,” he says, not convincingly. “We’ll be grateful to you both when we finish this press conference and never have to think about it again.”

“Sure,” Angie says. “Move forward the healthy way.”

He doesn’t catch her sarcasm, but both Elliot and Taylor have to hide their smiles.

“Some quick words from the crisis management team,” he mutters. “And we’ll begin.”

Once we’re brought to the PR professionals and separated from Angie and Taylor, Elliot and I don’t get another chance to talk. A barrage of rapid-fire instructions come at us, and when we’re marched out to the conference room, my stomach drops.

The room is packed. Countless cameras are pointed our way, and there’s a buzz of conversation that quiets as we walk to the long table.

Terrifying. And I am not at all prepared for this. I look to Elliot, and he raises up a half smile.

“It will be over in no time,” he says quietly.

I breathe deeply and sit with him at the table.

Being next to Elliot does help. Being a team with him helps in ways I can’t begin to understand. But with my boss waiting backstage and a room full of international media recording us, that’s something to think about later.

This is no different than a corporate presentation, I tell myself.

The publicist is a tall man with short dark hair, and he sets his phone and clipboard down as he takes the microphone.

“Thank you all for being here. Considering the public interest in their ordeal, we wanted to give Elliot Peterson and Hank Hansley a chance to speak for themselves, although we will need to keep this event short. Now. You all should have received the basic narrative of what happened. Who would like to begin?”

Immediately, all hands shoot in the air, and a ruckus fills the room. I lean back, surprised and affronted by the noise, and the first reporter steps forward.

“To start, how are you both doing? Are you healthy?”

“We’re fine,” I say, prepared for this question. “Just eating, resting, and spending time with friends and family.”

“Right,” Elliot says brightly. “Me, too.”

I catch myself. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to speak for you.”

Oh god, I’m being awkward. Normally I’d have no problem with a softball question, but I’m far too tired for a press conference. I don’t know what the firm is thinking in insisting on this.

Elliot shoots me a fake smile. “No problem. Luckily, neither of us brought any flesh-eating bacteria home, so our recovery is on track.”

A warm laugh goes through the room, and I relax slightly.

A reporter in the back chimes in. “What you’ve been through sounds terrifying. Were there any points where you thought you weren’t going to make it?”

“Definitely,” Elliot says. “It was especially dicey when we were lost at sea, and when we crashed our raft. There were plenty of cold, stormy nights to keep us awake and scared, too.”

“What helped you make it through?” the reporter asks.

“Each other,” Elliot and I both say at the same time, and all the cameras flash. Embarrassed, I look over at him, and Elliot gives me a slight shrug.

“Hank is a survivor,” he says. “From the moment we went overboard, he was focused on getting us home safe.”

I’m grateful that he’s talking me up, and I have enough sense to know to do the same. “Elliot, too. Whenever my spirits lagged, he kept us going. There were plenty of bleak moments, but we persevered.”

His knee lightly brushes mine under the table, and I swallow.

The publicist gestures to a tall man for the next question.

“Hank, will you tell us about the moment Elliot slipped trying to save the bird, and you decided to go after him?”