Page 9

Chapter

Eight

SCROOGE, MEET YOUR MATCH

Madden

“There’s just something about the holiday season that annoys the fuck out of me. Maybe its all the caroling and Christmas decorations, or perhaps it’s all the happy fucking people.” – M

L ater that evening I stand at the edge of the balcony, staring down at the crowd below. The white party is in full swing—people laughing, dancing, toasting—and yet, I feel nothing. It’s all a blur of color and aggravating sound, a distant echo that doesn’t reach me. The ever-present emptiness is overwhelming, an abyss that swallows everything in its path. Not even the obnoxiously cheerful crowd below, joyfully counting down to Christmas Day, can bring a spark of joy to my blackened heart.

“What the fuck is so special about this damn holiday?” I mutter to myself, shaking my head as I watch families and couples take selfies beneath an enormous, glittering Christmas tree. The sight makes my stomach churn.

Just as I turn to retreat into the suite, something flutters into my peripheral vision. A flash of green catches my attention against the backdrop of the twinkling lights. I notice a small green butterfly landing on the railing, its wing shimmering like emeralds in the dim light. Instantly, my thoughts drift to Willow O’Sullivan. Just the thought of her and the memory of her looking up at me so beautifully and so shy makes my chest tighten, as if the emptiness is starting to fill with something, and I’m both annoyed and confused by it.

When I close my eyes I still see her in the meeting room, surrounded by her colleagues. Even shy and silent she stands out among them—her wild brown curls bouncing with each subtle movement, the ridiculous mushroom shirt she wore, bright and out of place in that boring environment. I also see her signing her name rather than using her voice. Why didn’t she use her voice?

Taking a deep breath, I open my eyes, still focusing on the butterfly. The longer I watch it, the more I find myself thinking back to Willow’s life when I was briefly a part of it. As a child, she was teased relentlessly for her disability, for the sound of her voice—or lack thereof. The thought of her still being hurt, just for being herself, ignites a spark of unexpected anger within me.

I grip the railing tighter, knuckles pressing into the metal. The butterfly flutters away, startled by my sudden anger. My eyes follow its flight, tracing its path through the crowd below.

And then, amid the colorful lights and laughter below, I catch sight of her. I sigh in exasperation as I watch her from above. She’s walking out of the lower-level suites, her long brown curls catching the breeze, her mint-green skirt swaying with each step, the white tube top hugging her curvy frame.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

I hiss as a sudden pain grips my chest.

I don’t understand the pain, but I do know it only strikes when I think of her or see her.

I can’t look away. She looks like a fairy, ethereal and out of place among the white crowd.

I watch as she smiles at a man who offers her a drink, with a shake of her head, she politely denies. I scowl at the fucker. The odd feeling in my chest intensifies as I look at her some more.

Without thinking, I pull out my phone and call Perry. “Put one of the resort’s guests, Willow O’Sullivan, in the penthouse suite next to mine,” I say, my voice harsh. “And no fucking questions. Just do it.” I hang up before he can respond. The moment the call ends, the pain in my chest lessens. So, I keep watching her as she moves beneath me. Her quiet presence, her smile and her simple beauty, makes everything feel too damn intense. When the organ inside my chest begins to race, I tap my chest, mimicking the way she used to calm herself when she was little.

I didn’t understand it at first, but I knew it somehow made her feel better every time she did. Now, as I do it myself, it feels right. The taps ground me amid the chaos of emotions she stirs up within me as I watch her. I can’t tear my eyes off her as she moves through the crowd, smiling, and laughing. A boy who looks around seven or eight stops her to hand her a flower. Even from this distance, I can see her blush as she smiles and makes the sign for thank you. The kid beams and then runs off. Huh. Such a simple gesture…

She moves again, then pauses and leans in and press a gentle kiss to the cheek of a man I can’t quite make out from here. My jaw tightens as a pang of jealousy stabs through me again, sharp and very fucking unwelcome.

She’s speaking to the man now, looking happy and at ease as if they know each other. She’s not signing and that makes something twist inside me. She’s not using sign language, not even a hint of it. She must be speaking, feeling at home with the fucker.

A surge of anger bubbles inside me. Is she married to him? Is he her boyfriend? The questions spiral through my mind, each one more maddening than the last. The thought of her with someone else makes me see red. I grip the railing tightly, and with a sudden crack, a Christmas light snaps under my grasp.

The fuck…

Why does this bother me so much? She’s not mine. Fuck, I haven’t seen the woman in years. I must be going out of my mind. It’s irrational, but the sight of her with another man—someone she clearly feels comfortable and happy around—makes me furious. I don’t have a right to feel this way. Why the fuck does it matter who she’s with, or if she’s with the fucker.

As I watch her, the conversation with the man feels like it lasts forever, each second dragging on as I wrestle with the tedious emotions. My chest still hurts, the jealousy mixing with an indescribable yearning that I can’t quite place. As Willow wraps her arms around the bastard one last time, my frustration boils over. I watch as she hugs him close, her smile wide and genuine. The sight makes a low growl escape my throat.

A minute that feels like an eternity passes before she finally pulls away, her pretty smile lingering as she begins walking towards Sunset Escape, our beach restaurant. Willow smiles shyly at people she passes, only deepening my irritation. Why does she smile at them? Why does it bother me so much? I can’t stand it. I can’t stand the thought of her being so easily affectionate with someone else which is fucking insane. She’s. No. One.

I turn away sharply, rolling up my sleeve as I step into the suite and move toward the door, frustration driving me forward. Lincoln steps into my path. “Where are you going?”

I shoot him a bored look, barely registering the nuisance’s presence. “I’m hungry,” I snap, not in the mood for conversation.

“You just ate,” he snaps back.

Growing more annoyed, I push past him, the door swinging open with a force that mirrors my sour mood. Lincoln’s footsteps follow me, but I don’t turn to acknowledge him.

Fuck.

One meeting.

That’s all it took for Willow O’Sullivan to invade my mind and bloodstream, infecting me with everything that is her… all over again.