“I’m so sorry,” I whisper and rub her hand. There’s so much I want to tell her, but right now is not the time. I need to just be here for her and listen.
Her face twists in disgust and she closes her eyes as she speaks. “I saw his brains, Holt. I will never forget—” Her voice cuts out, and she stops talking as she’s overcome with emotion.
“Come here.” I pull her into my lap, and she buries her face in the crook of my neck. Her body shakes as she sobs uncontrollably, clinging to me like a little child. “It’s okay,” I whisper repeatedly as I comfort her. It takes her some time, but she finally settles down and pulls herself out of my lap.
She positions herself next to me on the couch and pulls my hand into hers. “I don’t sleep well because I dream of everything I saw in the barn. My therapist says it’s PTSD, and that with regular therapy, I should be able to cope and deal with this—but with me moving to Chicago; I haven’t been going to a therapist until now.”
“And the session this morning was . . . ?”
“Intense.” She exhales loudly. “Digging up every little detail I can remember and rehashing it all over again with a new therapist.”
I nod in understanding.
She continues, “But good, I guess, too. The more I talk about it, the more I seem to process everything. I’m hoping that someday, I’ll be able to tell the story and it won’t send me into a tailspin.” She forces a small smile and takes a sip of her coffee. “I need to apologize to you for what happened the other night. I took more Ambien than I should have because I just wanted to sleep—I wanted my mind to shut off and it had the opposite effect. Then when I woke up and you were there, I was hurting, but I was also embarrassed.” She looks away from me.
“You never have to be embarrassed with me,” I tell her, rubbing my thumb across her soft cheek.
“I know. But it’s humiliating, and I should’ve never treated you the way I did, and I’m sorry,” she says, regret filling her eyes.
“What can I do to help you?” I would do anything to take away her pain, her fears, and her anger.
“Just be patient with me. All of this is new. Chicago . . . my job . . . you.” She looks at me and her face twists in concern as if she’s just offended me.
I squeeze her hand. “I’ll be as patient as I need to be, Saige. I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you’re happy and healthy.”
“And stop being so perfect.” She smiles and nudges me with her foot.
I chuckle and run my hand through my hair. “I’m hardly perfect.”
“Holt. You are the epitome of perfect. You own your own aviation company, you could be a body double for Henry Cavill, and grace the cover of GQ tomorrow. But more than that . . . none of that defines who you are.” Her eyes soften and her lips hint at a small smile. “You are caring, and kind, and amazing . . . and sexy.” Her eyes sparkle when she says that.
“Say it again.” I love when she opens up.
“Say what?”
“What you just said.”
She grins. “You’re sexy.”
“Come here.” I reach for her hand and pull her closer. “Kiss me.” And she does. She presses her full lips to mine and kisses me like I’ve never been kissed. It’s soft and sweet and everything Saige encompasses rolled into a perfect kiss.
“So, Holt Hamilton. What are the skeletons in your closet?”
I literally hold my breath when she says that. If she only knew my past, or my background. Those are some skeletons I never intend to let her see.
She winks at me. “I’m waiting to find out you have a wife and three kids that you keep in another house—”
I literally laugh out loud at that. “No. No wife and no kids.”
She quips playfully, “Then what? There has to be something wrong with you.”
I swallow hard but don’t respond. “Saige. What you see is what you get.” If only that were the truth.
But she doesn’t see it. She doesn’t see the lies in my eyes or my hesitation. She simply puts her trusting hands over both of my cheeks and peppers my face with kisses.
I brought Saige to my house to rest for the afternoon. There was no sense in her heading back to the office after her session this morning, and it’s easier for me to work from my home office than from her couch. It’s late afternoon and I dial the international number, pressing the speaker button on the phone. It rings three times before Sergio Perez’s voice fills the room.
“Mr. Hamilton,” he says. “Thank you for returning my call.”
His greeting and tone immediately sets me on edge. “Mr. Perez. What can I help you with?” I pace the wood floor of my office and glance out the window that overlooks the backyard.
“I met with Ms. Phillips last week,” he says with his heavy accent.
“Yes, I heard the meeting went very well.”
He musters out a menacing chuckle. “It did. I enjoyed my trip to Chicago. So much so that I’m interested in coming back.”