Page 34

Present: Nine Years After the Accident—Twenty-Nine Years Old

“I’m glad we did this, Lexy.” Dayton smiles as he takes out his credit card.

I quickly pull out my wallet, but he stops me.

“Don’t worry about it.” His familiar easygoing grin makes a reappearance.

We’re sitting by the windows in a quaint cafe on the Upper West Side.

Pedestrians hurry to their next destinations, all bundled up in wool coats and leather gloves, no doubt bracing themselves against the brisk wind of late fall.

Dayton and I have texted occasionally since he visited me in the hospital.

He’s a good friend, and he’s tried, more than Summer—or Sandra—to my disappointment, to reconnect.

I constantly remind myself while it might feel like I just took a nap, for everyone else, years have gone by.

Years where they’ve lived life, experienced hardships, got married, had kids, and became completely different people.

Just like how I’ve matured, it’s only normal for relationships to change.

Maybe someday, the aching loss I feel would fade away.

“So, how’s the medical trial going? ”

“I honestly don’t know. They don’t tell me much because they don’t want to influence the results—placebo effects or whatnot. Just a bunch of pills and monthly scans and checkups.”

“But do you think it’s working?”

Something in his voice makes me look up.

Dayton smiles at me in that reassuring way of his.

He reaches over and holds my hand.

“My memory? Like, has it come back?”

He nods.

“No, not really. I have snippets of images. But nothing I can make sense of.” My chest tightens and I stare at our hands—a sight I remember so well.

But I want to pull away.

“Just a lot of water. Dark waters. Screams and yelling. I can’t tell what’s real or not.”

I shiver, thinking about the helplessness I’d feel whenever I’m in a spell, trapped in pitch black water rushing into my lungs.

“One day, everything will make sense.” I snap my rubber band.

“Maybe when I can swim without help, I’ll finally figure it out.”

I’ve gotten nowhere with my swimming.

Floating in the kiddie pool and even swim laps around it, no problem.

But put me somewhere deep where I can’t touch the bottom, and I’m screwed.

“It must be hard.” Dayton releases my hand.

He sits back in his chair, his voice soft.

He’s matured so much and I like this side of him.

“But don’t force yourself. It can backfire…or so I’ve read.”

“You’ve done research?”

“Of course. We’re friends, right? I care about my friends.”

“Right. Of course we are. I’m grateful you’re here.” The tension releases from my body.

Having a second chance at life puts everything in perspective.

To really treasure the people who stick around.

“You know what sucks? People tip-toeing around me. Thanks for not treating me like an invalid.” I sigh and look around.

“So much has changed. Remember Uncle Ian, Dayton? You met him when you picked me up for Homecoming back then.”

He looks at me strangely.

“I think so. What about him?”

“You think so? He showed you our gun safe, and you were sweating bullets afterward. No pun intended.”

Dayton chuckles.

“Oh right. I remember now. What about him?”

“No one would tell me how he died. I asked and even researched online but came up empty.”

He leans forward, his voice urgent.

“Lexy, you won’t get answers to everything. And that’s okay. Enjoy the present.”

I cock my head to the side, and he shrugs and smiles.

“You’re right. I just need to accept that I might not remember everything about the past. I should focus on the present instead.” I groan, thinking about who I’ll be seeing when I get back to Fleur.

My meeting with the finance department, which includes Ethan.

“What’s going on? You look worried.”

“Just work stuff.” I ball up the napkin in front of me.

Dayton frowns and leans forward.

“Is this about…Ethan Anderson?”

Maybe it’s the concern in his voice, the familiarity of his gaze, or the fact he isn’t related to the man in question, like Taylor is.

But suddenly, I get an urge to confess my complicated feelings toward Ethan.

I stare at the napkin in front of me.

“He’s a man of a few words—cold, and yet hot at the same time. I can’t figure him out.” The understatement of the year.

“Hm.” Dayton taps his fingers on the table.

“May I give you some advice?”

I look up and nod.

“Ethan Anderson is known to be calculating and ruthless in the industry. He never reveals his cards until he’s setting down his winning hand. And it makes me wonder how a person became that way and what deals he had to make to get to where he’s at now.” Dayton reaches over and clasps my hand again.

His voice becomes urgent.

“I don’t want you to get hurt, Lexy. I might be overstepping, but if I were you, I’d stay away from him. ”

A pinch appears behind my rib cage.

What if I don’t want to stay away?

The server returns with the bill and Dayton lets go of my hand and signs it.

“Shall we?”

We walk outside, and his driver opens the door of his town car.

“You sure I can’t drop you off at your office?”

Glancing at the overcast skies, I shake my head.

“Nah. Going to walk off my lunch. Thanks though.”

Dayton pulls me in for a hug.

“Call me if anything comes up. I’m here for you.”

His scent of aftershave and mint wafts to my nose and I inhale, slowly deflating when I realize my heart doesn’t palpitate the way it does when I smell leather and amber.

The cologne of a mysterious Anderson with stormy eyes.

The so-called bore of the Anderson family, as Rex calls him, the ice monster of numbers.

The man Dayton warned me about.

But they don’t know how he lights me on fire just with his mere presence.

How I don’t sense danger or ruthlessness in his presence.

Instead, I feel…safe.

Why?

A sharp pain stabs my head, and I wince.

Damn headaches.

After Dayton and I part ways, I head toward Fleur Entertainment headquarters.

The sharp bite of the wind causes me to pull the lapels of my coat tighter.

Quickening my pace, my boots crunch over the dried leaves of brown and gold scattered over the sidewalk.

My mind shifts to my most pressing concern—the meeting waiting for me when I get back.

And the person I’ll see there.

Ethan.

I’ve avoided him like the plague for the past month since Mystique, opting to take the stairwell instead of the elevators or looping around the building instead of cutting through the lobby on the off chance I might bump into him.

He’s swung by my cubicle a handful of times, but as soon as I saw him coming, I’d duck or pretend to be on the phone to avoid talking to him.

But I didn’t miss the crestfallen slump of his shoulders or the muscle tic in his jaw as he spun around and walked away.

I don’t know what came over me that night at Mystique.

Or him, for that matter.

My skin burns from the memories seared into my brain—the way our bodies moved together, the masculine rasp of his voice in my ear.

My first damn orgasm after I woke up from the coma, given to me by a man who’s driven me insane, and he did it without touching my pussy.

The way I shamelessly moaned and egged him on, my mind delirious with want.

How right it felt to be in his arms, how my heart and body clamored to life in his presence.

It makes no sense—he’s a little more than an acquaintance, right?

Why am I responding to him this way?

“Shit. What were you thinking?” I groan, mortified at the wetness gathering between my legs.

I wish I could scrub the memories away.

I can’t even blame the alcohol because I only had one drink at the club.

Dammit.

But I can’t avoid him any longer.

I have a job to do.

After reviewing the financial data his team gave us—occupancy rates, revenue per season, customer demographics such as age and gender—the marketing team came up with a preliminary plan to go over with him in the first meeting for the joint project.

Otherwise known as Project Dreamer.

What a strange and whimsical name.

When I asked Lana the meaning behind the code name, she gave me a brief, knowing glance, and said it was anonymously submitted by a team member.

I remember the breathlessness in my chest when I heard it for the first time.

But why? My life is full of whys now.

Followed by the damn headache again .

A cab honks in the distance, jolting me back to the present.

I look up.

Oxygen flees my lungs, my feet rooting to the ground.

A grand Gothic structure looms to my left—it’s beautiful and stately, the dark exteriors standing out among the pale limestone or red bricks of the tree-lined street.

The warm glow of lights behind the intricate stained glass windows beckons me closer.

Glancing at my watch, I notice I still have an hour before my dreaded meeting.

I walk closer and look at the plaque by the entrance, an intense yearning gripping my chest.

Ravenswood Library.

This must be what sailors feel the first time they step into their homes after months at sea.

I push open the heavy doors and step into old world elegance—the smell of weathered tomes and the hushed whispers immediately welcoming me.

I’ve never been here before—at least, not that I remember—but it feels like home.

Mindlessly, I walk around, admiring the rows of mahogany shelves, until I spot a spiral staircase tucked in the back.

My stomach knots, a flashing jab appears at the base of my neck again, and I climb the steps.

A closed door meets me at the top.

The door looks new compared to the weathered beams and decor of the building—it must’ve been a recent addition.

The glass is etched with a name and a beautiful design of a hummingbird, its wings spread.

My breathing quickens, and I trace the name on the door.

The Wing of Eternal Dreams—The Rare Text Archival Floor.

My heart jolts. An avalanche of emotions flits through me—too quickly for me to name, but I’m able to identify a few.

A flare of joy followed by crushing grief.

The throbbing in my neck becomes a violent stabbing, the headache rearing its ugly side, and I close my eyes and focus on my breathing.

Everything hurts .

Sweat beads on my upper lip and I fight the urge to throw up.

Slowly, I slide down to the ground and bury my face between my knees, waiting for the wave of sickness to pass.

Breathe in. Long breaths out.

Repeat.

I need to talk to Dr. Riordan about these episodes at my next appointment.

This can’t just be side effects.

I want to know what he’s seeing on my brain scans.

Ping.

Exhaling deeply, I take out my cell phone and swipe to the home screen, noting Polaris’s email sitting on top of my inbox.

A rush of warmth suffuses me.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Haven

Good luck with your work project.

You’ll do well, and before you ask me why, I’m going to throw your motto back at you.

If I believe it, who’s to say it isn’t true?

I grin, imagining a small smile on my mystery man’s face.

If it helps, there’s a good rule of thumb that works.

Fake it until you make it.

No one knows you’re worried or scared.

Only you do, and we’re the harshest critics of ourselves.

A person wise beyond her years once told me that.

Have you tried meditation or breathing exercises?

It helps with anxiety.

I have family members who suffer from it, and I’ve tried to read up on the condition.

Personally, I enjoy escaping to my haven when the world is too heavy, and my mind is cluttered with negative thoughts.

For me, this place is a small library with a beautiful courtyard.

It’s close to my work.

I walk there when I need a break from regular life.

It always helps.

I have faith in you.

Here for you always,

Polaris

The door swings open behind me and I quickly get up as a middle-aged man hurries past me down the stairs.

Considering it’s time to head to Fleur, I move to follow him, but before I take my first step, I’m hit with an urge to turn around.

Time slows when I do.

Right before the glass door shuts, I glimpse a beautiful hummingbird stained glass window on the far wall.

The cool daylight filters through the unique red chest of the bird, just like the lucky earrings I’m wearing.

My hands tingle.

I smile, watching as the door closes, the image of the bird branded into my mind.

Reading the whimsical name again—The Wing of Eternal Dreams—I notice my head and chest don’t hurt anymore.

Instead, the worries in my mind quiet, like the hummingbird somehow whisked them away.

If I believe it, who’s to say it isn’t true?

Filled with renewed energy, I trot down the stairs and leave Ravenswood Library, a place I know will become my haven.