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CHAPTER 22
Erika
The dead silence of my apartment wrapped around me like a cold shroud as I stepped inside, nausea twisting my stomach into knots. The box of red roses in my hand felt like a lead weight, doing nothing to quell the rising tide of fear within me. Foster had sent me flowers while I was at Morgan’s wedding. The concierge handed them to me with a smile, but the moment I touched the box, a shiver ran down my spine. These weren’t from Lincoln.
I placed the box on the granite counter, my hands trembling so violently that I had to grip the edge to steady myself. Why now? Why, after all this time, was Foster trying to worm his way back into my life? He knew he had the power to break me if he was persistent. He always had. After he left me, my emotions were shredded, like the foolish teenage dreams I’d woven around the son of a billionaire. But what he did to me—what he made me feel—was worse than anything my father ever did.
The sweet fragrance of the roses wafted from the box, making my stomach churn. I ripped off the lid, my breath catching as I spotted the card nestled among the blooms. The cream-colored cardstock bore Foster’s familiar handwriting, bold and commanding.
I don’t care who he is. I want you back, and I’m fully prepared to do what I need to make that happen. Call me.
His number was scrawled at the bottom, and I dropped the card onto the counter as if it burned my fingers. A wave of dizziness hit me, and I clutched my stomach, bile rising in my throat. I barely made it to the garbage can before I was retching, the bitter taste of vomit searing my throat. Tears stung my eyes as I expelled the last remnants of my lunch, the smell assaulting my senses and threatening to send me into another round of heaving.
I yanked the bag from the can, struggling to keep my breath shallow as I made my way down the hall to the trash compactor. The box of roses was clutched in my other hand, and I took grim satisfaction in shoving it down the chute. Foster didn’t deserve a place in my life, not after everything he’d done. He had his chance, and he blew it.
My cell phone rang as I returned to my apartment, the sound piercing through my headache. I fumbled through my purse, irritation flaring when I saw Lincoln’s name on the screen.
“I thought I said I need space,” I snapped, pressing the phone to my ear.
“You’re not pushing me away, Erika,” Lincoln’s voice was soft, but there was a steely edge to it. “We can work through this.”
“You’re pushing me away by not respecting my wishes,” I countered, my voice trembling with a mix of anger and fear. “Let me have some alone time.”
“Erika,” Lincoln’s voice cracked, the vulnerability in it tugging at my heartstrings. I could almost see the pain etched on his face, the pain I was causing him, but I was too scared to stop.
“Please. If you love me, give me time,” I pleaded, my voice barely a whisper.
“I... I don’t want to lose you,” he confessed, his fear mirroring my own.
“You won’t,” I promised, though I wasn’t sure if I believed it. “Just let me be.”
He sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. “Time. I’ll give it to you. I love you.”
I couldn’t bring myself to say it back. Instead, I muttered a quick goodbye and ended the call, the silence that followed was deafening. Morgan’s wedding had stirred something in me, a fear that had been lurking beneath the surface for years. How could I commit to Lincoln the way Morgan had to Slade? I was terrified of disappointing him, of not being enough.
I headed to the bathroom, the taste of stomach acid still burning in my throat. After rinsing my mouth and brushing my teeth, I gulped down a glass of water, trying to wash away the lingering bitterness. As I changed in the closet, Lincoln’s words echoed in my mind.
When he told me I’d said Foster’s name in my sleep, it was like a punch to the gut. The dream I had about my old boyfriend was vivid, disturbingly erotic. Foster wasn’t my first, but he was the first to make me feel things no one else could—until Lincoln.
I didn’t understand why I’d dream about Foster after all this time. It had been years since I’d seen him, and for most of those years, I wanted to scratch his eyes out. But seeing him at Surge, out of nowhere, blindsided me. Last I heard, he was in Florida, snapping up waterfront real estate to turn into luxury condos. I’d been relieved when he left Manhattan, but now I couldn’t help but wonder why he was back.
Returning to the kitchen, I spotted the crumpled card on the counter, mocking me. I snatched it up, ready to toss it in the trash, but then I remembered I needed to replace the bag. I hesitated, the card crumpled in my fist, before smoothing it out. My fingers traced over the familiar handwriting, and a faint whiff of his cologne drifted up—a spicy, sexy scent that made my stomach turn. God, I hated him.
How could Foster think I’d ever be interested in him again? I shoved the card into the top drawer of my mahogany desk, out of sight but not out of mind. There was work to be done, and I retrieved my laptop from the kitchen, determined to focus on anything but him.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of phone calls and appointments. I tried to lose myself in negotiating a deal with an agent who was apparently out on his boat somewhere on the Long Island Sound. His phone kept cutting out, and with each dropped call, my frustration mounted. But no matter how busy I kept myself, Foster’s words lingered in the back of my mind, like a dark cloud I couldn’t shake.
Monday morning arrived in a haze, the alarm’s shrill ring pulling me from the last remnants of sleep. I dragged myself out of bed, groggy and sluggish. An appointment at 8:30 a.m. with a new client awaited, and while I wasn’t thrilled at the early hour, the fact that the apartment was only two blocks from mine made it bearable. The client sounded eager to settle in Manhattan, which could mean a quick deal—a fat commission, and maybe even a client for life.
The city was in the grip of a relentless heat wave, and despite the air conditioning blasting in my apartment, I felt sticky and uncomfortable after my shower. Deciding to keep things simple, I left my blonde waves to air dry, figuring the heat would melt away any makeup I applied anyway. I opted for a knee-length black skirt and a sleeveless gray silk blouse. Colvin wasn’t joining me today—he’d taken a long weekend to visit friends in New Jersey—so it was just me and my briefcase as I headed out.
By the time I stepped onto the sidewalk, it was 8 a.m., the heat already stifling. I hurried down the street in my four-inch black heels, my mind on the apartment. The current tenants weren’t the tidiest, and I wanted to make sure there weren’t any stray towels or dirty dishes lying around before the client arrived. You’d think they’d be more meticulous if they wanted a quick sale.
The building was a prewar gem, its lobby an elegant blend of dark wood and creamy marble, with a front desk that looked like it had been carved by a master craftsman. I handed my business card to the female concierge, who checked her list and then handed me the key. The elevator ride was quick, and a glance at my watch told me I had twenty minutes to make sure everything was perfect.
Everything was in order by the time the lobby called up to announce that Carson Jacobs, my client, was on his way. I had the sales sheet ready, the apartment’s stats memorized and rehearsed. The bell chimed, and I moved to the door, my breath catching in my throat as I pulled it open.
Foster.
