I don’t bother with a glass. I simply take the bottle and start to walk outside, when my phone buzzes on the counter.
Dread fills me, instantly and completely.
Which will it be? My father or my uncle?
I force myself to look, only to find William’s name.
You f**ked up. So did your boyfriend.
Startled, I stare at the words. So did your boyfriend. What did Brand do?
I grab my phone and the bottle of wine, and head outside for some air. I walk down to the beach, dropping into the sand, not worried about the fact that I don’t have underwear on and sand will get into all of my business.
It doesn’t matter.
Nothing matters.
The words on my phone threaten to burn my hand, so I drop the wretched phone and take a swig of wine. Directly from the bottle. My mother would be so proud.
I take another.
Then another.
Then, when the liquid courage has begun circling through my veins, I pick the phone back up.
What do you mean?
I don’t even have time to put the phone back down before there’s an answer.
You should’ve known not to f**k with me.
Chills run down my spine. I didn’t f**k with him. I do know better.
I can’t breathe.
He’s threatening Brand.
I stare at the words again and they run together and I can’t breathe.
So instead, I drink because I don’t know what else to do. I won’t know what he intends to do until William actually does it, so all I can do is wait.
Wait for the other shoe to fall.
I sit in Brand’s shirt in the sand, smelling his scent on my skin and drinking wine as I stare at the stars.
Before long, after most of the bottle is gone, my nose goes numb and my fingertips get cold.
I take the last drink left in the bottle, then cast it aside.
I don’t know when I fall asleep.
All I know is that the sand feels ever so good against my cheek.
Chapter Eighteen
Brand
I wake up in the middle of the night alone, although it doesn’t take long to find Nora.
She’d left the front door wide open. Her car is still in the drive, so I wander down to the beach.
That’s where I find her passed out in the sand. She’s wearing my tuxedo shirt, and an empty bottle of wine is about a foot away from her, resting in the dirt.
She’s had a hard night.
Obviously.
I ignore the twinges in my leg and bend, scooping her up and carrying her back into the house. Each step is torturous with the added weight on my knee, but there’s no way I’m leaving her outside.
She nestled into my chest without waking, and I find that one side of her face is covered in sand. As are her arms and legs.
With a sigh, I carry her into the bathroom. I bend and lay her in the tub, and remove the hand-held sprayer before I turn the water on. I let it get warm in the sink, before I pick it back up and rinse off her legs, her feet, her arms.
She doesn’t stir until I’m wiping her face off with a washcloth.
She wakes with a start, her hands automatically flying up to shield her face.
“No!” she protests wildly, her eyes glazed, striking out at me, clenching her hands into fists, blows raining onto my chest.
“It’s just me,” I grab her hands, restraining her. “Shhh. It’s ok. It’s only me.”
I punch the name into the search engine and read the multitude of articles that are returned.
William Shepard Greene II.
The oldest son of William Shepard Greene I, older brother of Maxwell. Heir to half of the Greene fortune when their father passed. He’s lauded highly in the business world, known for his keen instinct and sharp dealings.
He’s older than Maxwell by ten years. He’s sixty-two.
The mere idea of his hands on Nora turn my stomach and I glance at her again. She sleeps softly, curled onto her side, her hands by her face. She sighs in her sleep and my gut tightens again.