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“No. I think I hurt my arm playing tennis the other week. Stop changing the subject. Look. At. The. List.” She points to the piece of paper that still remains on my desk.
“You play tennis?” I ask, my brow crinkling. I cannot imagine Mom playing any sport. She doesn't like to perspire. Says it is unladylike.
“Concentrate on this, Edward. You need a wife,” she demands, her cheeks reddening in anger, her eyes piercing mine.
“Mom, seriously, I need to work. I don’t have time for this.” I am getting agitated. The late afternoon sun streams in through my floor-to-ceiling windows, the amber glow illuminating the city below. I sigh. I was hoping to get this contract signed off before I went home, but now that is going to be a difficult task.
“Edward. You need to look at this list!” Her voice rises another octave.
“No. What I need to do is get this contract signed; otherwise, the whole deal will crumble, and we will lose close to ten million within a matter of minutes if I miss the deadline,” I growl. My eyes narrow at her. I have never been this vocal with her, ever. I usually let her get away with most things, but organizing a wife for me is a step too far.
“Fine. I will leave it here and come back and talk to you about it another time.” She purses her lips, not happy about it, but realizes that it is us boys who keep her finances healthy. I’m sure she doesn’t want to jeopardize that for herself. I do need to get this contract done, but it isn’t due for a while. I may have exaggerated that small detail. I watch her stand, smooth down her skirt, and walk straight out the door, leaving it wide open without a care in the world and without another word.
“Jesus,” I murmur to myself, rubbing my head. She frustrates me beyond words. I clench my fists as I look at the paper that sits on the edge of my desk before I lean over and grab it. I don’t bother looking at it before I rip it in half, then in half again. Over and over until there are tiny bits of white paper like confetti now sprinkled on my desk.
“Sir?” Miranda asks from the doorway. “Your five o’clock just canceled.” Thank God. I feel like someone is watching out for me.
“Thanks. I need to go. You pack up and have an early day as well. After that debacle, I think we both need it,” I offer with an apologetic smile, which she graciously returns, and I watch as she packs up her desk and leaves.
I try to finish the contract but have lost all focus. My teeth continue to grind, my shoulders on fire with how tense they are. What in the world is she even thinking? Why would she think that setting me up with some society princess is what I want? With the rest of the office starting to clear out, I shut down my computer and grab my jacket.
I need to go and hit something.
The ride to the Harborside building frustrates me even further as peak-hour traffic has Tony snaking around the streets. By the time I get to the foyer, I am more on edge than I have been for a long while.
“Brian. Any maintenance?” I blurt out, stalking to the back office and grabbing the jeans, cap, and shirt I keep here. He cocks a brow at me and is about to say something sassy but thinks better of it.Smart man.
“Actually, yes, there is. The older man in 2B broke his cupboard again and wants it fixed before he gets home from his weekend in Florida,” Brian says, looking at me with a worried expression. “Did something happen, bossman?” he asks tentatively, eyeing me with suspicion.
“My mother happened,” I mutter. I know he heard me, and I shouldn’t speak outside of the family, but she has a reputation, and everyone is aware of it. I make quick work of getting changed and grab my tool belt. Taking my frustrations out on 2B cabinetry is just what I need.
Leaving Brian at the desk, looking at me with a furrowed brow, I stalk to the elevator and take it to 2B. I do a loud courtesy knock, just in case anyone is home, but there is no answer, so they must be in Florida as Brian mentioned.
I walk straight to their kitchen and see the offending cupboard. It hangs from the bottom, the top hinge completely off. A frustrated growl breaks from my chest because I know he was leaning on it again. I wonder if the old guy actually realizes he is breaking all these cupboards on his own.
I dump my tools and get to work, attempting to pry the bent hinge off the timber door, trying to get it loose. The way it is hanging off the door, it is out of shape, making it hard to remove.
“C’mon, you stupid fucker…” I grumble to myself, my frustration heightened as I put all my strength into flicking it off the timber so I can reattach a new one. I take a deep breath and push with all my might. The hinge comes loose, flying through the air, along with the screws. But that isn’t all. A piece of wood snaps off, just as my body falls forward from the force, and the sharp wood pierces my shoulder. The pain is instant.
“Son of a bitch,” I yell, throwing the cupboard door onto the floor as I lean against the kitchen counter.
“Don’t look at it, don’t look at it, don’t look at it,” I repeat to myself, forcing my eyes closed while trying to slow my breaths. I have never been able to stomach the sight of blood. Ever since I was a kid. I have done my best over the years to try to get past it, but for the most part, I just look away. Already feeling nauseous, I put down my tools and make my way out of the apartment and to the elevator. I feel dizzy, and my legs start to feel like jelly as I feel the warm wet liquid coat my fingers. The distinct metallic smell rises up my nostrils as I bang on the elevator button, willing it to hurry up. I need to make it back to the foyer and to Brian before I hit the floor. I am sure he will be able to slap some sense into me. Maybe he can send a warning letter to 2B as well, because if I ever have to go back there and fix a cupboard door again, it will be too soon.
CHAPTER SEVEN - KATIE
Iwalk into the foyer, my legs still tender, but not as sore as they were last week. I give Brian a smile and a wave as I cross the lobby, seeing him on the phone and not wanting to interrupt. Being greeted by his smiling face every evening when I get home has become a nice little part of my life that helps me feel connected. Like, in some weird way, someone is looking out for me. I make my way to the elevators, where I wait, seeing the numbers on the side coming down to ground. The days at the hospital are still long, but now my mind and body are growing more used to the demanding hours. As the elevator doors open, I go to walk in, but Eddie falls out.
“Eddie!” I call out, seeing the state of him. He is pale and barely walking. As soon as I spot a little blood on his shirt at his upper chest, I go into nurse mode. Instantly, I’m looking around, searching for the culprit of his injuries, ensuring no danger is nearby. “What happened?” I ask quickly, trying to remain calm. He leans on me, nearly crumbling me in the process.
“Hey, Pinkie,” he murmurs, his hand flinging around my waist, his head resting on my shoulder. His warm breath skirts down my neck, making my heart race and my body feel electric. I wrap my arms around his waist, trying to take his weight, which is futile as I stagger under the pressure.
“Brian!” I yell to get his attention, and I watch as his eyes widen as the two of us stumble toward the concierge desk. Brian runs over to us, grabbing Eddie on his other side and taking most of his weight. Eddie is barely lucid, his feet stumbling over each other like he is drunk. He can’t even walk straight as the three of us stagger behind the concierge desk into a large office, one that is just as luxurious as every other thing in this place. My guess is he doesn’t like the sight of blood because there is not enough of it on his clothes for him to be feeling faint due to blood loss.
“I’m bleeding,” Eddie whispers, his eyes going wide as he looks at his hand. Blood coats his fingers as he takes a seat in a large armchair, and I stand in front of him, assessing.
“Don't look at it,” I say quickly, wiping the blood away with a tissue before pulling his hand from in front of his face and holding on to it. His hand is bigger than mine, and he wraps my fingers in his, the connection sending goosebumps up my arms. “Look at me. Don’t look at anything else. Just look at me.” I soften my tone, my initial concern starting to leave my body now that I can see the gash is not too bad. I give his hand a squeeze of support.
“I’m fine,” he mumbles, trying to sit up straighter, still paler than I’d like him to be.
