Page 27 of Sweet Nothings

Biting on my bottom lip, I re-read his message, double checking to make sure it was Lennon who sent it. It’s out of place and completely off topic. It doesn’t make sense.

Although it’s odd, I find the corner of my mouth curling into a smile. The idea of a million strangers throwing their wishes out into the universe in the hopes they would come true in the new year is a sweet thought.

Me: I guess it’s a little bittersweet knowing the trash I’ve watched tossed out into the air every year on television has a little bit of meaning. What makes you bring that up?

I wait several minutes, but there’s nothing.

No bubble. No three little dots. No response.

My eyes grow heavy, and although I’ve spent the last few minutes replaying my entire conversation with Lennon, disappointment burrows in my chest.

Talking with and seeing a different side to him played for a perfect distraction, because even though it was short lived, he opened the door and presented an escape from reality.

When sleep is on the brink of consuming me, my phone pings, and with a hammering heart, I read his message through heavy, unfocused eyes.

Lennon: Good night, Ms. Branford x

I frown. Unsure why I’m filled with disappointment.

Exhaustion. Reality. Helplessness. Regret.

The truth.

My sister is dying, and she can’t even afford the chance to lessen the odds.

Reluctantly and foolishly, I’ve let Lennon Harding back in.

Before my eyesight fades to black, I consider my options, remembering I would do anything for those that I love.

Even if it makes me a hypocrite.

NINE

I’ve never been the sort of man who liked counting his days. My mother used to count down the days until spring, sometimes even the hours. I remember seeing her stand in front of the large window above her small garden overlooking the bay.

Seeing nothing but naked trees and not a single budding flower, she’d cross her arms and stare at it all with a smile. Then, while rubbing her hands over her arms to ward off the late winter chill that New England can never seem to shake, she’d quote her favorite Beatles song to me with an unwavering smile. “Here comes the sun, Lennon.” Her grin would reach her blue-gray eyes. “Spring is coming. Twelve more days. I can feel it.”

My mother may have liked to count down the days to her favorite season, but I’ve never taken on her tradition. Not until recently, anyway.

There are only nineteen days until my deadline to marry Laurel Branford. I should be focused on the nineteen days, but all I’ve been able to think about is how it’s been three days since I’ve spoken to her at all.

Well, more likemessagedher.

After another routine nightmare, I’d woken up in the middle of the night to complete and utter darkness, drenched in myown sweat. The city below my high-rise apartment did nothing to bring light to the cave I’d found myself in. Darkness has consumed me long before now. I’d been absentmindedly scrolling through social media—a pastime I never indulge in—when I’d come across her gorgeous face; perfectly painted red lips and indigo eyes that shined just as bright as in person. No filter.

Laurel Branford is pure, natural fucking beauty.

It’s been three and a half days since I messaged with her that night, and it takes everything in me not to press the floor level button in the elevator to her office right now. With a stiff finger, I press on my level and shove my hands into the pockets of my suit, hoping it will stave off my craving to pull the elevator to an abrupt stop when we reach her floor.

“Tomorrow morning, you have a conference call with Erik Larsson—one of your newly secured clients in Sweden. Micah emailed over the contract for his investment to start the expansion of his hotels in Boston, Cambridge, and Braintree.” My assistant Olivia hands me a leather-bound portfolio. I flip it open and scan the document as she continues. “Erik understands your situation...”

I shoot her a glare.

She clears her throat.

I’ve tried my best to keep my father’s ridiculous condition from being leaked to the media, as well as our existing clients. The last thing I need is for the media to run another scandal or story about how my father has been able to manipulate and control his family from beyond the grave.

Olivia’s face immediately flushes with panic. “I’m sorry, Mr. Harding. I didn’t mean to hit a nerve.” She nervously licks her lips. “I just didn’t want you thinking he was expecting more than a consultation tomorrow. He understands nothing will be set in stone. From what Micah said, he told Erik you were stillgrieving the death of your father and wouldn’t be getting back to operating your full business until the beginning of next month.”

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