Page 28 of When Hearts Awaken

I blow out a heavy breath. What if I didn’t listen this time? But that doesn’t mean I need to entertain the whiplash moods of someone clearly disturbed.

“Charlie, it hurts,” Little Firefly cried as she burrowed her face into my side. The little pipsqueak was so short, she barely reached my chest.

I ruffled her sunset strands. “Just a skinned knee. Next time, don’t go climbing on the monkey bars without someone with you. You’re too short for them.”

“Will you come with me next time?”

Smiling, I gave her the biggest hug—my bear hug, as she liked to call them. “Of course. I’ll always be here for you.”

My broken vow to her. One that’ll haunt me the rest of my life if she doesn’t wake up.

My throat is parched as I scroll through my photos app—I don’t take a lot of pictures, so there aren’t many to go through before I get to the ones from six years ago.

I smile at the images of Firefly—her grinning at the camera, her smile teeming with life, a pile of books gathered in her arms. One of the three of us back at the Hamptons—the last time we were there as a trio—her waving her hand in hello, her silver bracelet flashing under the afternoon sunlight, Liam throwing his head back, his sleeve of tattoos on full display, and me staring at the two of them, a smirk twisting my lips.

Then, there are the photos Uncle Ian sent me back then. Snapshots of him in Paris, teaching ballet in his academy there, him relaxing on vacation in the Mediterranean. I distinctly remember making fun of him for not being back stateside, claiming the hot European women must’ve kept him busy. I click the social media app and scroll through his posts from that time. Everything was in Europe, just like I remember.

He wasn’t here. He wasn’t in New York. Whoever hurt Taylor, Ian had nothing to do with it. But whoever it was, I suspect it was something physical to elicit such a vehement reaction at The Sanctuary last weekend.

The thought of someone snuffing out her spark makes me want to punch something, and the sudden burning rage rising inside my chest terrifies me.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. And another. I won’t turn out like my dad.

“Why are you gripping your phone like it’s your worst enemy?”

Startling, I turn around, noticing Maxwell leaning against the doorframe, his charcoal eyes narrowing at me pensively.

“What?” A forced chuckle escapes my lips as I slide my cell phone back into my pocket. “You’re overthinking. I was just waiting for you guys, although I expect Rex to be late. No doubt he’ll have some women troubles to entertain us with.”

“Hm.” The oldest Anderson sibling doesn’t appear convinced. I walk to the wet bar and pour him a whiskey—single malt, neat, the way he usually likes it.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “Of course you know my favorite drink.”

Maxwell’s gray eyes, reminding me of a certain angry ballerina, fix on mine again, and I fight to maintain the grin on my face.

“You don’t let anyone in, Charles. You know we’re here for you, right?”

I huff out an exhale and stare into my tumbler. “I guess we have that in common, don’t we? Aren’t you ‘the reclusive billionaire?’” It’s one of the nicknames the press has given him over the years.

“At least I don’t hide my true self. You hide under your charming smiles and golden prince persona.”

Taking a sip of the alcohol, I wince from the burn. “Maybe it’s part of the curse of being the oldest sibling in the family.” Except he’s loved by his siblings and I’m just a fucking failure in that department.

Something dark flashes in his eyes and he stiffens before looking away. I’ve hit a nerve, but the man is as locked down as Fort Knox, and until he’s willing to share his secrets, no one will know them.

Maxwell lets out a grunt. Apparently, that day isn’t today. “Maybe. But it isn’t healthy, bottling up your emotions. I have art and racing as outlets. What about you? I don’t see you pursuing any interests outside of work, nor do I see you with women. That can’t be healthy.”

I have my occasional subs. But I don’t bother mentioning that weak ass argument.

I press my lips together as a sudden hollowness appears inside my chest.

An outlet?

I’m thirty-six and single, with nothing going on other than my job. Yes, I have lots of friends and am well liked in the business community. But my brother hates me, and Firefly is in the hospital because of me. I’ve had a few superficial relationships with women, and have tried pursuing women I admire—emotionally intelligent, kind, gentle women, everything Mom isn’t—but somehow, they’ve always ended up choosing other men.

Perhaps other men who could give them their whole hearts. I can’t say I blame them.

I don’t want a passionate relationship, one like my parents’, whose every living moment is fire and brimstone—intense love, hate, and all the emotions that end up burning everyone around them to cinders. But I do want a genuine one.

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