Page 77 of Boarded Hearts

Even after only a few short weeks of being with Jon, I see that relationships can be two-way and healthy, not the dictatorship Elliott ruled.

He looks down at the whiskey glass in his hand, swirling the amber liquid around. He’s clearly had a few drinks; his eyes are slightly glazed. “Don’t come crawling back to me when that playboy boyfriend of yours does the dirty on you. I mean, are you even exclusive? What happens when he wants children? You’re a little old to be giving him a family, don’t you think?”

My face drops, and I can feel the blood drain from my features. Shit. What if that is what Jon wants…a family, children. I’ve been so caught up in the present I haven’t stopped to consider what I may be capable of giving him, and exclusive? I think we are. We’ve never set boundaries, but I assumed we were.

Capitalizing on my uncertainty, Elliott continues to follow me into the kitchen and edges toward me as I stand with my back to the counter. He’s about three feet from me, and I can smell the liquor on his breath. A satisfied smile pulls at his lips as he tips his glass toward me. “He could be anywhere right now, with anyone. Your rich and famous boyfriend could have anyone he wanted. I’m sorry, Felicity, but what makes you think you’re special to him?” He reaches out and places a hand on my waist and my body reacts, but not like it does to Jon. I recoil. My stomach revolting. “I told you I still care for you and that won’t change. You’re special to me.” His tone is much softer now as he inches even closer, our noses barely apart. I look to the side, uncomfortable with where this is heading and his proximity. “I’m sorry about what happened between us, and I meant what I said that night at your apartment. I want to try again. For us, for Darcy and Jack.”

I want to run; I want to get out of this house. My heart rate picks up as I begin to panic and look for a way out of his grasp, but he has me cornered. “Elliott,” I say as calmly as I can. “I’m with Jon. I’m happy with Jon. I also meant what I said that night at my apartment. Our marriage is over. It’s not what I want anymore.”

A few beats of silence pass between us as he goes back to swirling his whiskey and then brings the glass to his lips and downs the remaining drink in one gulp. He bangs the glass down on the counter so hard I’m shocked it doesn’t break in his hand. Turning back to me, he narrows his eyes and purses his lips together with rage. “Then I want you out of my house by morning. Get your things and fuck off back to Seattle and to your man.”

Intimidated and shaking, I push past him and make for the stairs. It's Christmas Day evening; there’s nowhere for me to go, but I can’t be within fifty feet of him. Placing one foot on the stairs, I turn back to him. There’s a direct view through the hallway and into the kitchen at the back of the house, and I can still see Elliott’s back as he faces the counter and pours himself another drink. “Don’t worry, I’m gone!” I shout back. “But you can tell Darcy why I couldn’t stay here as she wanted, why we can’t all be together for Christmas.”

Elliott spins around, his face contorted with amusement. “Oh, Felicity, you really are that gullible. Jon Morgan’s going to have a field day with you.”

Realization dawns on me. Oh, holy shit. He lied to me. Darcy never told him she wanted us all to be together and under the same roof. This was his way of getting me here and to his house. Jon was right. Kate was right. Embarrassment rocks my body as I race up the stairs and to the spare room.Why did I just believe him? Why do I always believe him? He saw the mum-guilt within me, knowing I’d want to please my daughter without question, and he capitalized on it.

What the fuck am I going to do?

Opening the door to my bedroom, I shut it quickly behind me and slowly fall to the floor, dragging my back down the wood until I collapse in a heap. Where do I go? Swiping under my eyes, I shakily take my phone out of my pocket to find several unanswered texts from Jon, which must’ve been the buzzing I felt earlier.

Not bothering to open them, my fingers shaking in panic, I bring up his name and hit dial.

He answers on the second ring. “Jesus, I’ve been going out of my mind.”

On hearing his voice, the walls I built around my heart that were there to protect me from showing vulnerability to anyone ever again come crashing down, and I sob. I sob and wail, drawing in shaky breaths as I desperately try to find the words to tell him what’s happened and how stupid I’ve been.

“Felicity.” Jon’s voice is calm and kind but equally demanding. “Please tell me, what’s happened? Are you hurt? Please tell me he didn’t touch you.”

I draw in another shaky, uneven breath. “You were right,” I say. “He told me he wanted to try again and when I refused, he kicked me out, and now it’s Christmas fucking day and I’ve got nowhere to go.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

JON

I’m going to fucking murder him.

I swear to God, if he has laid one finger on my girl, he won’t have any left to count the money in his precious investment funds.

I’m in my Porsche doing ninety-five on the freeway and headed for the airport. I don’t recall saying bye to Mom and Dad, but Adam caught me as I rushed out of the house.

“It’s Felicity, isn’t it?” he asked, concern etched into lines across his face. He passed me his phone, which showed there was a flight to London Heathrow leaving in ninety minutes, and I still have an outside chance of making it, provided there are available seats. “Go,” was the last thing he said to me as I flew out the door.

I’m grateful I have an overnight bag with me because I haven’t had the time to stop anywhere to get supplies. I’m also grateful I had the forethought to pack my passport just in case. Anxiety can be a bitch at times, but when you repeatedly run through every scenario in your head, you are at least prepared for the worst.

I dump my car in the drop-off zone—they can bill me—and race into departures.

“Ticket. Heathrow. Now. Please.” At this point I’m unable to form coherent sentences, the bile in my throat impossible to swallow down.

“There are only first-class seats available, sir.”

I look myself up and down. “I don’t fit into economy seats, ma’am.”

I notice her eyes widen just slightly as awareness of who I am sinks in, but she maintains her professional exterior, thank Christ. I can’t risk being delayed signing autographs and taking pictures, so I flip my backward cap around to face forward and pull the peak as low as it can go over my eyes.

“That’ll be?—”

“It isn’t an issue,” I reply quickly and hand my black AMEX over with shaky hands as she swipes it, checks my passport, and passes me my boarding pass.

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