Page 35 of Dangerous Devotion

“That’s real nice of you,” I say, “wish I could accept, but I’m all booked up.” I lie with a straight face. All I have planned for this weekend is to be bitter about Serena Mayfield.

“That’s good to hear, boss,” he says like he’s encouraging some kid.

“Thanks again, Ronnie. Did you need anything?”

“Nah, just checkin’ up on ya,” he says fondly.

“Tell Foz to concentrate on slinging drinks,” I say wryly.

“Not sure it’ll do any good, but I can try,” he responds.

I finish tying my sneakers and head back to my home gym. One thing’s for sure, my workouts are getting the time they deserve. It turns out that any upper body work hurts like hell with my stitches, so it’s leg day every day. I turn the volume to max and zone out while I follow along with the workout. Interval training at least shuts off my brain. The sweat burns my eyes, and I can barely breathe. I cue up another session and push through.

This time I’m so winded, my muscles trying to cramp, that I can’t dissociate. My thoughts go in a loop, chasing each other through my mind.

She said she was so happy with me.

The loop repeats again and again. At last, I stumble over to stretch and drink some water. I remind myself what I know to be true.

Her eyes brighten when she sees me.

Her smile heals my soul.

I lay on the mat, trying to let my body cool down. I toy with the idea of funding a scholarship specifically for her, something with a living stipend tied to it so she can’t use it to bail out her father. That’s controlling, I realize.

It makes me uncomfortable that I want to make her decisions for her, that I feel entitled to dictate what she would spend a stipend on. I could just tell my finance guy I want her taken care of. He could arrange for expenses, a line of credit, some kind of restriction to keep her from liquidating assets to give her father’s debtors. But I don’t want to outsource this or her.

My head throbs, and I know I need to grab another bottle of water.

If I had to describe her in one word, and that word couldn’t be ‘mine’, it would be ’loyal’. Not ‘coward’ or ‘weak’. Walking away from me after every word and action up until I got stabbed was loving and attached and euphoric was not about weakness. Serena gave me no reason to doubt that she wants to be with me until, like Lynette said, I went and got hurt and scared the hell out of her.

I was too strung out from pain and blood loss to think straight when she walked out on me. If I’d been able to reason it out at the time, it was obvious she got spooked and ran off.

She was afraid. I didn’t even notice, didn’t comfort her. It sickens me to realize that. As a man, I weigh myself in the balance and judge myself as wanting. She deserves more than a man with a bruised ego who blames her for his own transgression. I failed her, failed to see her terror.

I should’ve taken her in my arms and told her the truth. That my job has its risks and while that won’t change, my habits and security protocols can be altered to make everything safer, to reduce the danger. I should have assured her I could keep her safe and that I would take better care with my own life now that it matters to her. I nearly choke on shame from the profound apology I owe her.

I vault off the mat, pulse racing, wondering if this is clarity or if it’s a stroke symptom. A quick shower and I’m in street clothes. I waste minutes debating whether to bring her flowers, whether to call her first or just show up at her door. With an apology. With roses. With a damned diamond ring. With my heart in my hand.

It galls me to wait, to show restraint. But I make myself sit and dial her number. It goes straight to voicemail. I don’t leave a message. I sit and hold my phone, willing the screen to light up with a call back from her. Minutes pass, but she never calls back. Chest aching with want, the urgency thrumming in my blood, I pace the length of my penthouse again and again.

In desperation, I call Lynette again.

“You came to your senses?” she says by way of a greeting.

“You could say that. I tried to call her, and it went to voicemail.”

“Can ya blame her?”

“That’s not productive,” I frown.

“Did you think you called one of your lieutenants that you say jump and they say how high, boss? Cause you got the wrong number if you think so,” she says.

“I know better than that,” I tell her, “But I want to know what to do. To do this right, to apologize and reassure her about security concerns and the danger. Without being pushy and controlling. Like I wanna show up at her door with flowers and champagne, but something tells me that’s intrusive.”

“Intrusive, creepy as hell—whatever you wanna call it, Jacky. Do not show up at her door without talking to her first. For one thing, if I don’t know somebody’s coming over ahead of time, I don’t answer the door.”

“Okay, so what then?”

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