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Chapter Nineteen
Vivian
It’s official. Nate has turned me into a hibernating bear.
I wake to an empty bed in the hotel and stretch my arms overhead. The white bedding is muted given the room-darkening curtains. Thankfully he left them open a crack. If not for the wedge of sun streaming in I might have slept even later. I quickly search the room, but Nate, as per his usual, has already risen and shined. Who knows where he’s gallivanted off to. I imagine he’ll return with a gift, or better, breakfast.
I shower and wash my hair, shaking off the fatigue from our travels and that “one more” beer I indulged in at Pint Haus. That last one is never a good idea. When will I learn?
I’m in the middle of drying my hair, naked, thanks to my towel falling off mid-blowout, when I hear the door open and close. Nate strides by.
“Hey, you.” I grab my towel and loop it around my body, intending to flash him when he turns around. What stops me is his expression. Murderous isn’t the right word, but close. There’s a palpable hurt beneath the rage that makes what he’s feeling hard to classify.
He sets down the white bakery bag and offers me a paper coffee cup. “Cappuccino. Croissants.”
“How very French of you,” I say carefully, gripping my towel. His eyes go to my hand but they don’t glaze over with lust. Something is very, very wrong.
He presses his fingers to his forehead as he strolls across the room. I pull on some clothes while he looks out the window, his jeans and T-shirt silhouetted in the sunlight streaming through the now-open curtains. His shoulders are tight. His back muscles twitch.
I approach on cat’s paws and touch his arm. “Nate, are you—”
“I saw her.”
My heart sinks to my stomach. Not at his words, but his tone. He faces me. The hurt triples as some of the rage fades.
“My mother,” he explains. “I found out where she lives and I paid her a visit.”
I want to ask how she is but I’m not sure how he found her, so I keep my question to myself. He saves me the trouble.
“She wasn’t high.”
“That’s good.”
“She asked me for money so she could get high. I told her no. She yelled. She screamed. She told me I was abusing her by not giving her the ‘medicine’ she needs.” He speaks through clenched teeth. I have no idea what to do. Touch him or don’t?
“I’m sorry.”
“I begged her to go to rehab. I offered to take her right then. Told her I’d pay for her stay and visit twice a month.” His hurt-filled eyes hit me like a sock to the stomach. “Know what she said?”
I shake my head. I don’t think I want to know what she said. Unfortunately he’s going to tell me.
“She told me her son abandoned her. That I was dead as far as she was concerned. Then she attacked me. I think she was going for my wallet.” He holds his arm out. In the sunlight, I make out shallow scratch marks.
“Oh my God. Nate.” I reach for him but he shakes me off.
“I envisioned reconciling some of the guilt I still feel for leaving her. I thought I could help. I can’t help her if she doesn’t want it.”
“You’re right. You can’t.”
“It’s my job to help others.”
“No. Your job is to provide homes and workplaces for people who want to be part of a community,” I correct. “Not drag people to a conclusion they have to reach on their own.”
“What about last night?” he asks, a frown carving his brow. “You didn’t need dragged to a conclusion that Walter Steele isn’t running your life?”
He’s angry and I have to be very careful not to snap back at him, which is so, so tempting. I’ve never seen him like this—not in control. Is this what he looks like when he’s out of it? I throw the words he said to me on the plane back at him.
“I know what this anger is masking. And so do you.”
