Page 39 of When Hearts Unravel (The Orchid #6)

For the past two days, I cloistered myself in my stateroom, working and teleconferencing with my team back home since our summer marketing campaign was about to kick off.

My investigator sent me an update, saying he had some leads on the camera, but it was a cash trail, so it’d take some time to run down.

The cruise is coming to an end. Only Monte Carlo left after our current stop in Tuscany.

Olivia, from what Lana told me, had her schedule full of appointments with passengers after some argument broke out on the Rose floor decks.

Olivia’s words from that morning rolled around in my mind whenever I resurfaced from work.

I want to give her the potential for forever.

But there’s so much shit going on.

Heck, I had two more blackouts—once waking up slumped over a workout bench, freaking out the housekeeper assigned to my stateroom. Another time, I was in the kitchen again, a pot burning on the stove, its contents charred. One of these days, I’m going to hurt myself or someone else.

I called up another neurologist, doctor number twelve, if you count Olivia. I booked an appointment for when I get back to the city.

“I have to say, your symptoms are odd. You said you’ve done MRIs and CTs already and they found nothing? Any changes to your medical history? Anything you left off? Have you done a full psychiatric workup?”

I didn’t answer him. I didn’t want to mention the Velowake or my horrible experience with my last psychiatrist before Olivia. I was ashamed. But now I wonder if I should give psychiatry another chance.

Just tell Olivia the truth. What if Casey’s right? What if she doesn’t leave you? What if she helps you instead?

My ribs tighten and I can’t breathe.

What if she does leave me? But she’s going to leave you anyway if you can’t promise her the potential of a forever.

I can’t think straight.

“You didn’t have to do this.”

Bree’s voice draws my attention back to the room. We’re gathered inside the central demonstration kitchen aboard the cruise.

Staff hustle around the brightly lit space, preparing for the cooking class about to start.

“Of course we do!” Lana drapes her hand over Bree’s shoulder. “I’m sorry you have a headache and don’t want to go out. But we leave no man or, in this case, no woman, behind.”

Bree frowns, the orange glow from the sunset outside the windows highlighting the guilt in her eyes.

I couldn’t get any more information out of her, and she’s grown more withdrawn the closer we get to Monaco.

Elias, the asshole, has been dodging me as well.

To say it’s frustrating to have no answers would be an understatement.

But at least Bree’s been following instructions with The Association still out there. Other than the masquerade she cleared with me beforehand, she’s rarely ventured outside her stateroom, much to Lana’s disappointment.

That’s why Lana announced we’re staying on board for the cooking class today.

She thought that would be easier on Bree, who clearly didn’t want to go on the offshore excursions.

And we can’t say no without rousing more suspicion from my sister, whom we’ve kept in the dark about the mission.

No use in worrying her when she can’t do anything.

Bree grumbles, “But we’re in Tuscany. Shouldn’t you guys visit vineyards, drink wine or something?”

“Nah. I’ve been to Tuscany many times, but I haven’t gotten a private lesson from Chef Giacomo Valenti. Trust me, I’m staying for him. Hot and knows how to cook? Sign me up.”

I groan. “Don’t even try anything funny, Lana.”

Lana strides up and jabs her finger at my side. I bat her away. “Don’t you dare go all protective older brother with me. You and your parade of women. Me cleaning up your PR messes in the past. I’m single and ready to mingle, and Giacomo Valenti is a looker.”

Her eyes suddenly narrow.

Someone clears his throat, and I turn around, spotting a flash of black hair and a man in a navy suit disappearing around the corner. Then I hear the familiar click of a lighter.

Fucking Elias, hovering around like a ghost.

“Am I late? Is Chef Valenti here yet?” Olivia bursts into the room.

My head snaps up, my gaze colliding with hers, and she skids to a halt, her face flushing.

My blood heats as our eyes lock. I can’t look away.

A strange silence falls over the kitchen.

“Dr. Lin,” I murmur.

“Mr. Anderson.”

My little Olive blushes and scurries away to the corner where Bree is, and I grip the marble counter in front of me to restrain myself from chasing after her.

“Seriously?” Lana’s gaze pinballs between us, then she glares at me. “Really, Rex?” she whispers.

“Calm down. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“You and I are talking. Tonight. After class,” she growls under her breath.

Then something catches her attention. Her eyes widen, and she blinks.

“Signori e signore… Buonasera!” A dirty-blond man with curly hair and brown eyes strides into the kitchen. He’s dressed in chef whites, a red bandanna around his neck, his lips cocked in a flirtatious smile.

I look at Olivia, then at Lana, finding their eyes riveted on the handsome man.

Motherfucker. This must be Chef Valenti.

“Close your mouth. You’re drooling,” I mutter to my sister, who elbows me again, but I barely notice.

Because the modern day Casanova is going around the room, saying hello to the guests. He winks at the women, pats the men on the back, gives Bree one of those European cheek kisses, and I swear, she practically expires in front of him.

And when he smiles at Olivia and winks at her?

I see red.

My jaw tightens, and I grind my molars.

He’s saying some shit to her, in Italian no less, and I watch as she beams at him, starry-eyed.

Then the asshole touches her.

He puts his meaty paw on her hand and lifts it to his lips.

I bite my cheek, tasting blood, and grab the wine glass next to me. I imagine snapping the stem in half and stabbing the man with it. Then I’ll teach Olivia how to cook while he bleeds out on the floor.

The bastard is touching what’s mine.

Mine.

No, she’s not yours, you imbecile. You can’t give her forever until—no, if—you can even figure your shit out. That’s what she wants, remember?

She wants the white picket fence, the doting husband.

She doesn’t want someone mentally ill, riddled with guilt, and definitely unstable.

She doesn’t want someone who relies on caffeine pills to function.

I toss back the wine, barely tasting it. It could be cat piss for all I care.

But then, a thought occurs to me.

What if we delay the decision? What if we give ourselves this trip—this paradise on earth?

We’ll take all the precautions—meet in private areas out of sight from other passengers so her reputation remains intact.

I’ll keep a low profile with her. We can be with each other even if it’s only for the rest of the cruise.

Then once we’re back in New York, if I could figure things out, maybe things would be different.

The idea takes root and a low current sizzles through me.

I watch as the bastard Valenti moves to Lana, who practically prances in front of him, excitement vibrating from her. She grins shyly and extends her hand, and just as he reaches for it, someone clears his throat again.

Our attention snags on the shadow lurking by the kitchen entrance. Elias knocks his lighter against the wall, his gaze cold and face impassive.

He cocks one eyebrow.

I shiver—the damn man can menace without trying.

Valenti stiffens, his hand dropping to his side.

He murmurs to Lana, “Thank you for your invitation, Ms. Anderson. I’m honored to teach a group of distinguished people today.”

Then he returns to the center of the room.

Lana frowns and mouths, “What the hell?”

I look at the entrance, but there’s no one there, the mobster vanishing like an apparition.

“Today, we’re learning the art of handcrafted pasta. You’ll roll and cut tagliatelle by hand, then we will create the perfect Ragù Toscano,” Valenti explains. He strains a grin.

Ragù Toscano. Mom’s favorite. I smile, thinking about the wonderful memories of her and me cooking the same dish a long time ago.

Valenti walks us through the steps, then directs us to the flatscreen hanging on the wall, which also shows the instructions of the simple, yet flavorful pasta dish that’s a cousin to the spaghetti bolognese.

“First, get into groups of two.” The Chef claps his hands and the room scurries into action.

Lana beelines for Bree, who looks like she’d much rather be in her room, tapping away at her laptop than cooking. The other folks pair up one by one—most of them with friends or partners.

And then there’s my Olive, looking like a deer in the headlights, standing frozen on the far side of the large marble island.

“Signora, no partner for the beautiful lady?” Valenti asks, the charming smile back on his face.

The bastard has a fucking dimple. Women love dimples. Maybe that’s where my scar should go. A dimple would beat a dangerous scar on the cheek.

I think about the ridiculous conversation I had with Elias in the hangar before the trip.

I really need to lay off the Velowake and get some sleep.

Maybe it can happen again—no nightmares, just resting. It happened in Valencia at Las Fallas, didn’t it? Six blissful hours of darkness—no light, no sound, no images.

But it was with Olivia. Something about holding her in my arms that night gave me bone-deep peace.

It didn’t happen again.

Olivia told me she thought she was a shadow compared to her twin.

But she doesn’t know shadows can’t chase away darkness—shadows amplify the dark.

She chased away my nightmares, my memories. She gave me peace.

She burns brightest in my eyes.

My earlier idea echoes in my mind. Yes. That’s the answer. Enjoy this trip with her. Delay the decision about the future. I don’t have to give her up right now.

Maybe after the mission, I’d feel better. I’d stop having blackouts, I could sleep again, and I’d finally move on.

I’ll tell her everything then—all my secrets.

Then we can decide.

Lots of maybes, but fuck that for now.

She’s mine.

“First, you take the flour and you do this,” Valenti murmurs as he stands next to Olivia, clearly ready to be her partner.

Not on my watch.

I stalk toward her.