Page 140 of Falling for the Enemy

He should have told her he was leaving. If she’d known, she never would have assumed he’d be there to help set up, and she wouldn’t feel let down. Or better yet, he should have just been there for her, but he’d been too busy playing protégé to someone who wasn’t even family.

“I know,” he growled back at Logan, dragging a hand down his face, wishing again that he could hurl his clubs. “I…” Warren watched him closely. “It got complicated.”

“Complicated?” Logan echoed with disgust Soren didn’t need on top of his own self-loathing.

“I have to go,” Soren snapped in frustration. “Tell her I’m coming. I’ll fix it.” He killed the call and shoved the phone back in his pocket. Jaw clenched, he muttered one more apology to Warren. “Sorry about that.”

“Busy man,” Warren remarked.

“Not usually.” Soren forced his shoulders down, forced the CEO mask back onto his face. “It’s been an unusual morning. Let’s finish.”

They played the eighteenth at a dead run, or as near to it as Warren’s dignity permitted. Soren scarcely lined up his shots. He tapped in the last putt, but never watched it drop.

Shaking Warren’s hand at the fringe, he rapidly recited every gracious thing the moment demanded, honored, looking forward to it, my people will call your people, all while his body strained toward the parking lot like a hound on a scent.

“See you at the vote next week and then at the closing,” Warren finally said, releasing his hand.

Soren bolted to the parking lot where a man waited beside a full-size SUV with a clipboard.

“Mr. Hawthorne?”

“Yeah.”

He smiled and reached out a hand as he closed the distance. “I just need a couple signatures⁠—”

Soren ripped the clipboard out of the man’s hand and signed on every line, including a few he probably didn’t need to sign.

“I can see you’re in a rush.”

Soren wrenched open the tailgate and shoved his clubs inside. “Yes.” He slammed the tailgate.

“There’s actually a button for that.” He followed him to the front door. “The tank’s full and⁠—”

“Great. Thanks.” He climbed in and snatched the key fob.

The car started with a broken-in purr and the console lit. Four minutes past noon.

Frustration boiled inside of him and he fought the urge to beat the shit out of the steering wheel. Fishing out his phone, he stared at the screen. There were so many missed calls.

“Fuck!” He was breathing too heavily for sitting still.

He shot off a text to Jocelyn, not sparing a second to obsess over his words, but instead saying whatever he could to do damage control.

I’m so sorry. I’m going to be late. It was out of my control. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Please forgive me.

He read it twice. It looked thin on the screen, a paper bandage slapped over a wound he’d carved himself. He knew it wasn’t enough, but he sent it anyway.

Dropping the phone into the cupholder, he plugged Hideaway Bay into the GPS and threw the SUV into gear. Four hours and one storm-battered coastline between him and the woman he’d failed.

An hour later, just past the Rhode Island line, his knuckles still were bleached white from gripping the wheel. Unclenching his grip, he checked his phone for the tenth time.

Nothing.

He told himself she was busy, but in his gut he knew he’d fucked up.

The salmon rolled in at one-fifteen, fifty portions bedded in crushed ice that steamed faint wisps into the warm air. The chef rushed from the kitchen, bent over the coolers, pressed two fingers to the flesh, and pronounced it perfect.

Jocelyn’s knees nearly buckled with relief. “Thank the gods.” She waved Simon to help the staff carry the food back to the kitchen.