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Pushing himself upright from the living room floor, he frowned when he spotted Matt sitting on his couch, watching him.
“What are you doing here?” Conor asked, his voice husky, hoarse.
Matt sighed. “I was going to ask you the same thing. You always build a fort of books and sleep on the floor?”
Conor glanced around the room, aware how strange all of this must look. Given the concern on his brother’s face, he’d guess it wasn’t just odd, but alarming.
He’d spent the better part of two hours last night dealing with a killer anxiety attack. Once he’d managed to get his breathing under control, managed to convince his heart to stop trying to beat its way out of his chest, he’d given up on trying to sleep. After the panic stopped, his thoughts began to travel down some very dark roads, and rather than shut them down—as was his usual operating procedure—he let them in. Let himself wallow in every horrible memory, every frightening emotion, every defeatist bullshit thought.
And when he let it all go too far, he’d taken his pity party to the next level, trashing his living room in search of something that didn’t exist.
“You let yourself in?” Conor asked.
Matt smirked. “I have a keycard to your place, same as you do to mine.”
Because he and his brothers had all opted to live in penthouse apartments in Russo buildings, they’d exchanged keycards—the equivalent to leaving a key with a neighbor—in case of emergency.
“How long have you been here?”
“Long enough to make coffee and—” Matt was interrupted by the ping of the elevator, announcing someone’s arrival. “Long enough to call him,” he added as Gage stepped into the living room, his hair mussed and his shirt wrinkled. It looked as if he’d rolled out of bed, thrown on clothes, and come straight here.
“What’s going on?” Gage asked as he walked in. “What’s the emergency?” He frowned as he looked down at Conor on the floor. “Did you fall?”
Conor shook his head.
“No. Apparently, he slept on the floor,” Matt replied.
“Why?” Gage asked.
Conor sighed. “Is there a reason you’re both here?”
Matt took a sip of the coffee he’d helped himself to, bowing his head toward the table to indicate there were two more cups. Conor stood and reached for his before claiming one of the chairs. Gage did the same, though he opted to share the couch opposite Conor with Matt, his brothers sitting side by side.
Wonderful. That didn’t make Conor feel even more self-conscious. At. All.
“Tony called me a couple of hours ago.”
Conor turned toward the wall clock. It was eight a.m.
He’d destroyed his living room until nearly five before slumping down on the floor and falling into an exhausted sleep.
“That’s early for a—” Conor stopped midsentence, his sleep-deprived mind finally waking up. “Luca. Is he all right?”
Matt quickly held up his hand. “He’s fine. It was actually Harper who?—”
“Harper? Fuck! Where’s my phone?” Conor rose quickly, his heart racing as he glanced around the room, recalling he’d left it on the entryway table. Retrieving it, he tried to turn it on before he remembered it was dead. Scrounging around in his weekend bag, also still on the floor by the elevator, he pulled out the charger, plugging the thing in.
“Conor,” Matt said. “She’s fine. Sit back down.”
Conor returned to his chair, falling into it heavily. “What happened?”
“According to Tony, her old manager showed up at the hotel last night to convince her to return to modeling.”
Conor nodded numbly. That didn’t sound so bad.
Until Matt continued. “When she refused, he got violent.”
Conor bolted up again. “He what?”
