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“Speak of the devil.” Nicola paints a lukewarm smile on her face when she spots Burke on the other side of the waiting room. “Your ears must have been burning.”
Burke ignores her, rubbing his tired eyes with his thumb and index finger.
“You doing okay?” I ask, rising to take his side. I rub my palm along his tension-filled shoulder, not because I’m trying to make a convincing show of this in front of Nicola but because the man before me looks more tired and browbeaten than I’ve ever seen him.
Maybe he doesn’t need my comfort, but he’s getting it anyway because the last thing I want is for Nicola to rain even more drama onto this already tragic situation.
“I think we should turn in for the night.” Burke feels his pockets for his phone before remembering he doesn’t have it on him.
“Dash got you a room at the Marriott,” Nicola chimes in. “Feel free to get your beauty rest. I’ll be here all night.”
“The doctor said he’s stable,” Burke says. “And he needs his sleep. We all do. I’d rather be rested for tomorrow . . . and the next day. He’s not getting out anytime soon.”
Nicola shoves herself up from her seat, straightening the hem of her blouse.
“Suit yourself,” she says, strutting off.
“If they’re both staying, maybe we should too,” I suggest. “I’m fine pushing some chairs together in the waiting room . . .”
He bristles as if the idea of sleeping in a fluorescent-lit hospital waiting area is akin to sleeping in a dark alley in the meatpacking district.
“Do you have your phone on you?” he asks. I nod. “May I borrow it?”
I hand it over, and he taps in a number he knows by heart. We’re halfway to the elevator and he’s midconversation when I realize he’s talking to Yvette, rattling off all the things he wants her to pack in his overnight bag as well as telling her to throw a few things in for me. We’re riding down to the main floor when he tells her to call the boat captain to have him make the delivery.
Never mind that it’s getting late.
And forget the fact that Yvette likely had one of the most traumatic afternoons of her employment.
Burke doesn’t say a word during the entire walk to the hotel, nor does he say more than a handful of words as we settle in for the night in a room with two queen-size beds. He takes the one by the air-conditioning unit, cranking it to the coldest setting before rolling over on his side.
It’s impossible to know if he’s being distant because his father is, quite literally, on his deathbed . . . or if he’s no longer concerned with putting on a show because his inheritance is pretty much in the bag now, thanks to me.
In the hour that follows, I shiver under my icy blankets, attempting to chase sleep while Nicola’s words take up residence in my head.
Every last one.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
DORIAN
Present Day
“They’re faking it,” Nicola says from the other side of the ICU room.
“Chrissake, Nic, it’s two in the morning. What the hell are you talking about?”
“Briar and Burke. They’re faking it. This is about the inheritance.”
My eyes are dry and burning from this stale hospital air, and my father’s breath rattling in his chest is the stuff nightmares are made of, but Burke’s engagement is the last thing on my mind.
“I just don’t buy it.” She shrugs, crossing her legs and leaning forward. “It’s phony. Everything about it. It’s an act. I mean, this woman has been in our lives for hardly a week. We’ve spent every day with her, and all we know is she’s from Nebraska, and she’s so agreeable it makes me want to poke my eyes out with a rusty razor blade.”
Nicola and her theatrics . . .
“Can we talk about this some other time?” I point my gaze toward our dying father, whose heart is failing with every beat.
Five years ago, he was diagnosed with congestive heart failure, which was kept at bay with vasodilators, ACE inhibitors, aldosterone, and lifestyle changes.
But a few months ago, it got worse.
He’s been living on borrowed time ever since.
The last thing he deserves is to go out with the two of us bickering across him.
“Believe it or not, not everyone gives a shit about our inheritance.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, shutting my eyes to give them a break from watching this shit show unfold.
“We should test them.” She ignores me, and her foot is bobbing up and down. I’m inclined to believe this is a coping mechanism, but I’ve got half a mind to head down to the twenty-four-hour gift shop and buy myself some noise-canceling headphones and her a book of New York Times crosswords. “I have an idea, but you have to be on board with it.”
