Page 27

Kai

She’s pulling away.

Nicole’s words stare back at me, her latest assignment open on my desktop. It’s flawless.

I click through the submission again, searching for something—a deliberate typo, a cheeky jab, an off-point remark—any trace of the woman who would’ve left a reason to argue herself blue about a half-point deduction.

But there’s nothing. Just cold, clinical perfection.

I lean back in my chair, pressing my fingers against my temples. The desk lamp casts long shadows across the walls, and outside, campus has long since emptied.

It’s 7:45 p.m.

She didn’t text to say she was coming. But I’m here, anyway. Waiting. Hoping. Because this relationship has been on her terms.

It’s been three days.

Day one, I let her breathe.

Day two, I started to worry. Was it her father? Something at home?

And today? I watched that frat boy put his hand on the small of her back as they left the lecture hall. Together.

I push my hands through my hair, suddenly needing to work off the building rage.

Thirty minutes later, I’m in Lana’s pool, slicing through the water in a blur of need.

Two hundred laps later, I haul myself out of the pool, muscles burning in that sweet way that tells me I’m alive.

Then I shower off the chlorine, the cold water doing nothing to ease the ache in my chest even as my muscles start to unwind.

Dressed, I head back downstairs, passing by the movie room. The TV’s soft glow spills from the open door, along with the smell of buttered popcorn and Lana’s quiet laughter.

She’s curled up on the couch with David, a bowl of popcorn between them. Their easy intimacy hits like a punch.

“Rough night?” She asks, raising a brow as I shrug into my jacket.

“Something like that.”

David looks up. “You good, man?”

“Fantastic,” I mutter. “I’ll be back in a few days, Lana.”

Lana starts to rise to her feet. “What do you mean, a few days? Wait, Kai—”

I don’t wait to hear the rest.

I’m done waiting. Done swimming in circles around Nicole.

This fucking ends tonight.

Parked across the street, the ache in my chest loosens the longer I stare at the one thing that means the most to Nicole.

Everything about the Abbott’s small bungalow speaks to care; from the meticulously trimmed lawn bracketing the small driveway to the polished bamboo love seat in the corner of the porch bathed in warm porch light.

Silhouettes move behind the lacy curtains—a stooped man and another, a young woman curled on the windowsill, her legs stretched across the pane.

I don’t see Nicole, but I know she’s somewhere in that house.

I finally climb out and stride to the door, each step bringing me closer to ending this game she’s playing.

The door swings open before I can knock.

A younger version of Nicole stands there. She has the same wide blue eyes, the same defiant tilt to her chin. Her blonde hair is streaked with bright purple. She holds a paperback, her middle finger stuck halfway down the pages.

She must have seen me across the street while reading.

“Can we help you?” She asks, leaning lazily against the doorframe, her gaze raking over me as if daring me to impress her.

“Is Nicole home?” I ask gruffly.

Her blue eyes go wide as her lips split into a grin. “Why yes, she’s here. Come right in, sir.”

Sir? God help me.

She steps aside with a flourish, then calls over her shoulder, her voice loud enough to shake the walls. “Nic! Can you come out for a sec?”

I can’t help smiling as I take in the interior. It’s spotless, filled with the kind of mismatched furniture that comes from years of careful budgeting.

Frank Abbott sits stiffly in a worn recliner in the corner, the newspaper in his hands trembling as he lowers it.

“Good evening,” he greets cautiously. His eyes narrow above the bifocals sitting on his end of his nose, and I have to admire the flicker of recognition—or doubt—that he tries, and fails, to mask.

Frank Abbott knows me.

His glance swings to his daughter. “Bea, next time, you might want to check that strangers introduce themselves properly and hand over their axes before you offer them a grand tour.”

It’s not hard to see where Nicole gets her spunk from. It’s a shame about the early onset of Parkinson’s. He’d be so much fun to spar with.

“Dad, come on,” Bea rolls her eyes. “Everyone knows Chase Mitchell. Besides, he’s Nic’s . . .” she sneezes, “. . . boyfriend.”

I try to contain my shock.

When Frank continues to stare blankly, Bea throws her hands up. “The fitness mogul who’s now teaching at Aldridge Business School? It was all over the Gazette, Dad.”

Her father’s gaze darts between us, brows furrowing.

“You may remember me as Kai Keoni. Malakai Keoni’s son, sir,” I say quietly.

The reaction is immediate. The flicker of recognition gives way to disbelief, then something more reverent, just as Nicole steps into the room.

She skids to a halt at the doorway, her eyes and jaws widening as if she’s slammed into an invisible glass wall. I get a dark thrill in her almost comical reaction and the sight of her in her thin sleep shirt and fluffy slippers.

“There you are, love,” I murmur.

She flinches, her gaze darting to her father and sister.

“Malakai Keoni,” Frank muses. “Are you really Mal’s boy?”

I drag my attention away from Nicole’s blushing face to Frank’s. “Yes, sir.”

For a second, I wonder if he’ll shut down, if the memory of my father will stir up guilt or anger, depending on which side of the town Frank is aligned with.

Then his expression cracks. He gets to his feet so fast that Bea reaches out to steady him. But he waves her off, his movements clumsy but deliberate.

Then, to my absolute shock, he pulls me into a rough embrace.

“Son, we thought you ran away. Some said you were dead. Your father never said a word about where you were, no matter what anyone speculated.” His words tumble out, thick with emotion, and I feel Nicole’s gaze burning into me from across the room. “He was an . . . interesting man.”

“That’s one way to put it.” I smile, disarmed by his brutal sincerity.

I let him hold me a moment longer before stepping back.

Nicole finally finds her voice, though it’s little more than a whisper. “What are you doing here?”

I turn to her. “I came to talk to you.”

She crosses her arms. “You know they invented texting for this exact situation.”

“Let’s go.” I jerk my head toward the door.

She bristles, her chin lifting in defiance.

“Unless you’d rather we do it right here?”

Bea blows out a low whistle. “Well, shit, Nic. I think you’d better go with him.”

Nicole shoots her sister a glare that could shatter glass, then she stalks past me to the door, tension radiating off her in waves.