Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

KENNEDY

Harry is basically running on adrenaline as he drives us back to Labelle Manor. The ambulance pulled into the parking lot literally seconds after we turned out of it.

“This doesn’t feel good,” I say to myself. I keep thinking of the look on Rowan’s face—the way he was trying to come off as stoic but wasn’t quite managing it.

“Which part?”

I give him a look, and he sighs. “My anxiety is at about eleven right now. I’m trying to repress everything.” He pauses, and then his lips tip up slightly. “Well, maybe not everything .”

I turn in my seat to face him. “I could use some good news, so tell me Oliver kissed you. Please .”

“He did,” Harry says, slapping the wheel. He jumps when the horn goes off. “And it was after that squirrel tap-danced on my head, so I know he actually likes me. He said life certainly seems more exciting with me around.” He frowns. “I don’t know what could be exciting about the whole gas thing. That was just embarrassing, but everyone always tells me to stop over-analyzing things, so I decided to let it go.”

“Was the kiss good?” I ask.

“ Yes ,” he says. “But the whole time, I had this phantom itch on my head from the squirrel. When he pulled away, I started scratching it like I was infested with lice.” He grimaces. “Can you get lice from a squirrel?”

“No,” I say. “You can only get head lice from another person.” I shrug in response to his questioning look. “Despite what my mother thinks, infestations do happen at private schools.”

He gives a full-body shudder as he continues to drive.

“Do you think Jay’s going to be all right?” I ask in a small voice. “That was awful.”

“He seemed all right. I mean, he was still moving and talking.”

“Yeah,” I say, but my mind is firmly fixed on Rowan. I hated leaving him like that, even though it had to happen.

“How’d it go with Rowan?” he asks, swiveling his head to study me quickly before returning his attention to the road. There’s hardly anyone out, but Harry’s a fastidious driver. “I mean, before his stepfather had a heart attack.”

I almost laugh, mostly because Harry didn’t say it as a joke. But my mind summons Rowan again. There was a moment, before Jay came up to us, when I thought…

Of course, it’s stupid to think any such thing. Rowan has made it pretty clear that I’m not his type, and I’m supposed to be dating several other men. Truthfully, I don’t feel anything for any of them, but wouldn’t it be unethical to pursue anyone else? Besides, while I might have a month off work, I do work in Chicago, and Rowan’s life is very firmly rooted in Highland Hills.

“Kennedy?” Harry asks, and I glance back at him, lifting my fingers to my lips.

“He’s different than I thought,” I say, because I don’t want to make Harry worry. This show’s success is important to him—and to me, although for different reasons.

“I told you he takes some warming up. He comes off as a grumpy jerk…” He pauses. “And he is grumpy. But he’s not a jerk. At least not most of the time.”

I laugh. “A beautiful attribution.”

I consider telling him about Kerry and the incredibly awkward phone call I had with her, but Rowan wouldn’t want any gossip going around. While I trust Harry, he’s someone who enjoys sharing good stories so much he might not be able to help himself.

Once we get back to Labelle Manor, Harry sneaks me upstairs to my room, where I’ve been supposedly holed up all day with my food poisoning complaint. It feels strange to be alone right now, with five thousand thoughts pounding through my head, but Harry doesn’t stay. I know being around me is probably ratcheting up his nerves after everything that happened at the Christmas tree farm, and I’m supposed to be sick. I’m there for all of ten minutes before someone knocks.

Rowan , my mind supplies, even though logic dictates that it’s much too soon to expect him. I fly over to the door, but as soon as I start opening it, the person on the other side pulls it shut with such force I nearly fly into it face first.

“Excuse me?” I call out with plenty of attitude.

“I’m sorry, my peach,” says a voice that very clearly belongs to Jonah. “I wanted to bring you some gifts, but I don’t want to get too close in case it’s something other than food poisoning. You might be infectious, and I’m very sensitive to gastric complaints.”

I make a face at no one, but at least this means I don’t have to open the door and talk to him.

“But we can still talk through the door,” he suggests.

My air-scowl deepens. “I’m too unwell to talk.”

“Oh,” he says. “Oh. You need to use the bathroom. I see. Well. I hope my gifts will make your time on the porcelain throne more pleasant.”

A laugh escapes me before I can rein it in.

“Are you crying, Kennedy?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, my stomach hurting from the effort of holding in laughter. Then, because I need to get the full story so I can share it with my friends later, I add, “I hate being sick. How’d you get me gifts if you can’t leave the house?”

“I paid one of the cameramen to do it.” His tone shifts to the tattle-tale singsong of a small child. “Marcus has been paying them to bring in organic supplements.”

I couldn’t really care less.

“Okay,” I say. “Thank you.”

Please let him go.

“Be strong,” he says, and I can imagine him laying his palm against the door, which fills me with an urge to laugh that’s so strong my ab muscles are straining to contain.

“Thanks, Jonah. I will. I’ll see you when I’m well again.”

It occurs to me that I might be able to keep this charade going for a little while, at least long enough to miss the disastrous horseback riding session that’s supposed to happen tomorrow. Harry said my brother and Tina will be visiting later this week. Maybe they’ll know what’s happening with Rowan.

He said he’ll come. Maybe he’ll come.

But I don’t want to depend on it. Depending on it seems dangerous.

I hear Jonah’s footsteps retreating, thank goodness, and I pop the door open to see what he brought me. There’s a basket with a bright orange ribbon attached to the handle, and I bring it into the room, shutting the door. Laughter convulses through me when I see what’s on top—a framed photo of Jonah. It’s a glamor shot, done at what I’m guessing is his desk at work. Did he bring this with him from home? Has it been gracing his room until now?

I set the photo aside and laugh a little harder at the industrial-sized tin of breath mints. Other than that, there’s a short biography about Jonah Highbury the First, which I will absolutely be reading, a monogrammed handkerchief like the one he had the other night, and a bottle of Scotch that appears to be from a family company.

That, I make use of right away. It’s been a hell of a day. I’d prefer a glass of rosé, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I consider grabbing a glass, but it would undoubtedly scandalize Jonah—and my mother, for that matter—if I drank straight from the bottle. So I do.

I’m only a couple sips in when another knock lands on the door.

I flinch and cap the bottle, hiding it in my underwear drawer as if I’m a high schooler sneaking booze, even though I never was a high schooler sneaking booze.

It’s probably still too early for Rowan, so I ask, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” a man says. It’s clearly someone who expects to be recognized by the pitch and timbre of his voice, but I’ll be honest, I’m drawing a blank. Still, I don’t want to offend him, especially since I don’t know whom I’d be offending, so I step forward and give the door an experimental tug. This time no one pulls it shut.

Marcus is standing in the hall, dressed in a dark sweater that makes his blond hair look like spun gold. He’s almost too good looking, and yet…I don’t feel any desire to tug him into my room by the hem of his sweater. To be honest, I kind of just want him to go away. His presence is only a sliver more welcome than Jonah’s—possibly even less, given that Jonah’s basket amused me.

“You have a framed photo of Jonah?” he asks, glancing over my shoulder. His tone is half accusatory, half pissed off. Like he thinks Jonah and I are pulling off a long con.

Oh, for God’s sake.

“Yes,” I say, “didn’t you run into him in the hallway? He just dropped off a gift basket to make me feel better.”

Maybe it’s a little hypocritical to remind him that I’m supposed to be sick, but he presumably dropped by to check on me.

“And he gave you a framed photo of himself?” he asks, amused now.

“Don’t take inspiration from that,” I say, nodding to the dresser to my right. “There’s only so much room for me to display things.” The top is covered with what my mother would call bric-a-brac, her lips pursed in distaste, of course. Actually, most of the surfaces in the room are covered with more of the same.

“I was worried about you, Kennedy.” He reaches for my arm, skimming his fingertips over my sweater, and disappointment wells in my stomach. It might as well be a cat batting at me. No tingles. No warmth.

When Rowan touched me, it felt like fireworks were exploding beneath my skin.

My mood sours further.

“Well, you don’t need to worry about me.” I step over to the basket and lift out the book, waving it at him wildly. “I have fantastic reading material. Now, I really have to—”

“Oh,” he takes a step back. “Your stomach’s acting up again, huh? Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Good God, what did Harry tell them, anyway?

“Yeah, I’m feeling pretty lousy,” I say, because at least that much is true. “Thanks for stopping by, though.”

“Hey, do you think you’ll be better in time for horseback riding tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

His mouth stretches into a grin that should be devastating but is only mildly pleasant. “You might not want to miss it. I have a surprise prepared for Jonah.”

If he thinks that will make me want to be there, he doesn’t know me very well. All the same, I’m ready for him to leave, so I smile and say, “I guess I’d better try to improve, then, huh? I’ll check in with Harry in the morning.”

He beams at me and waves, then says, “ Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say goodnight till it be morrow. ”

My smile feels as fake as a Halloween mask. I mean, it wouldn’t be surprising if Jonah thought it was romantic to quote Romeo and Juliet to a woman, but I’d had higher hopes for Marcus. I can’t decide whether it’s better or worse that he didn’t perform it for the cameras. Actually…

My gaze flicks behind him, and I catch sight of a camera at the curve of the hall.

Did both visits get filmed?

Of course they did. Where did I think Jonah got all that stuff anyway? Either he brought it with him, or the PAs helped him acquire it.

I’m upset, without quite understanding why I’m upset. Wasn’t getting filmed the point?

“Well, thanks,” I say. “I’ll see you soon.”

At the last instant, he pulls a single flower from behind his back. My first reaction is confusion. Has he been holding that behind his back the whole time we’ve been talking? My second reaction is annoyance. Because all of this feels so completely processed, it’s like a chicken nugget of a moment. I don’t blame Marcus. He’s just doing as he’s told. It just… I can’t say it takes me out of the moment, since I wasn’t particularly feeling it anyway, but it’s a wakeup call nonetheless.

I take the flower. I smile. I act my part too.

Needless to say, all the guys come by at some point throughout the afternoon. Jeff brings me a contraband holiday romance book, so he is de facto my favorite. They all come with offerings, in fact, one of them giving me a heated blanket that is also very welcome. By the time someone knocks just before ten, after I changed into my pajamas and rejected most of my dinner tray—my stomach too twisted up by thoughts of Rowan and Jay to eat much—I’m sick and tired of guests. All of them have come and gone, anyway, so what is this? A group lullaby singalong? I open the door quickly, eager to see them off, only to find Rowan Mayberry behind it.

And he’s wearing the same shirt I am and carrying a large reusable shopping bag.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” I blurt.

“We match,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “My sisters would give me so much shit about this.”

I glance both ways down the hall, then drag him inside by the arm.

It’s also not lost on me that something inside of me has started to glow, like holiday lights flickering into brightness.

It isn’t until he’s inside, the door closed after him, that I get a good eyeful of him. He looks like crap—tired and sad, almost defeated.

“Oh my God,” I say, my hand lifting to my lips. “Did Jay…is he?”

“They think he’s going to be okay,” Rowan says with a sigh, then paces to the opposite side of the room and leans against the frame of the big picture window. There are low book cases beneath it, covered with more crap. He reminds me of the lion I saw at the Chicago Zoo when Olive’s mother brought us there. “They’re going to keep him for a few days, though, maybe a week. To be honest, I don’t really want to talk about Jay right now. I wanted to distract myself from all that for a little while.”

I swallow. I should tell him about Kerry. He needs to know, doesn’t he? If I fail to say anything, he’ll find out another way, most likely when she brutally tells him herself.

“There’s one thing I need to fill you in on before we shove it onto the shelf.”

“Oh?” he asks, gripping the top of the short built-in bookshelf with the hand not holding the bag. His knuckles look white. It’s obvious he knows this is bad news, or at least that he’s had enough bad news in one day that he can’t imagine it being anything else.

“It’s Kerry,” I say in a burst of words. “I did talk to her. I know it’s wrong to lie, but…” I swallow. “It sounds like she left Jay, and she’s on vacation. I have no idea what happened between them, but she was really dismissive, even when I told her about the heart attack. I don’t think she plans on visiting him.”

“Fuck,” Rowan says, his face transforming into a grimace that’s almost intimidating, even though it’s not meant for me. “My little sister said she thought something was off between them. Dammit. This isn’t good.”

“No,” I agree. Then, because he should know exactly what he’s dealing with, I add, “She didn’t seem very nice.”

His mouth lifts a little, in a pantomime of a smile. “Guess he’s got a type, huh?”

“Don’t we all?”

“What’s your type, Kennedy?” he asks, his eyes hooded as he studies me. “Suited Man Number…Six, is it?”

“Very funny,” I say, feeling a burst of self-consciousness. “I think it’s safe to say they’re your grandmother’s type, not mine. She’s the one who chose them.”

“For you,” he says. But then he gives a nod of acknowledgment. “She does like to think she knows what’s best for everyone. Doesn’t mean she’s right.”

He glances around, then does a double take when he notices Jonah’s framed photo sitting on the low bookshelf with the other tchotchkes. Eyebrows raised, he says, “What’s with the beauty shot? Is Jonah the new front-runner?”

A scowl slips over my face. “Absolutely not. He brought it by because he thought it would make me feel better. I guess Harry told everyone I have food poisoning, but they were all acting like it was giardia. Maybe he figured food poisoning wouldn’t be enough to make them stay away, so he implied it was something worse.”

He laughs ruefully and shakes his head. “Sounds like Harry.” He adds a shrug. “Sounds like Jonah, too.”

“All of the guys came by,” I say, mostly because he did say he wanted to be distracted. When I see the salty look my words put on his face, I rush to add, “For the cameras of course.”

Silence hangs between us for a few moments, and it’s not the comfortable kind. It’s loaded with the strange tension between us, with the knowledge of what happened to his stepfather today. With the question of why Rowan is here and what we’ll do now that he is.

I’m the one who breaks it. “I have a bottle of scotch in my drawer. Unfortunately, Jonah’s the one who gave it to me.”

“I think we can overlook that,” Rowan says, his lips lifting. “You know, I didn’t take you for a scotch drinker.”

“I didn’t either,” I admit. “But I’m realizing that I like a lot of things I didn’t think I would.”

It sounds like a leading comment, and honestly, I’m not totally sure I didn’t mean it that way. Seeing him now, after spending all afternoon sending away one rich jerk after another, I know that there’s one man who holds my interest presently. And it’s not any of the six who are vying to be my husband.

I can’t keep him. I know that. If nothing else, it would destroy the show, and if the show implodes, then so does my big plan for Leto’s Hands. And yet…I can’t help wondering if I can give him—and myself—a different sort of distraction tonight.