Page 183 of The Holiday Clause
“You came home for Wren. We all knew it. Just own it.”
The doors opened as other visitors stepped outside. “We should get back.”
They both sighed, forcing themselves to face the inevitable. But this time the elevator didn’t feel as constricting and he could breathe a little easier. When they reached the fourth floor, Wren stood, concern etched across her face.
Soren went in to visit their father and Greyson hugged her.
She eased back to read his expression. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” He pressed his lips to her hair, not ready to let her go.
“Is Soren?”
“He’ll be fine. We all will.”
Her arms tightened around him. “Do you want me to go in with you?”
He drew back to look at her. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
She slipped her hand back in his. “I told you, I’m not leaving your side.” They crossed the threshold as one.
CHAPTER 28
“Haul Out The Holly”
Greyson moanedas Wren worked the tension out of his neck. Moving his father back home had been an ordeal. There was the coordination of his care, the arrival of proper furniture and equipment, but above all, the biggest challenge was meeting his father’s unreachable standards. The man refused any additional care outside of his home, and insisted he would die in true blue blood fashion, dressed in a suit, broker on hold, and a fresh cigar in his pocket.
“You know, they say it’s common for people to rally at the end.” Wren worked the tendons of his shoulders and neck. “It’s like autumn, when everything is crisp and at its brightest for one final hurrah.”
Maybe that’s what this was. They assumed the man was in the winter of his life, but he came out of that hospital like a tyrant, barking orders and making demands they scrambled to meet.
“Tomorrow he’s having his portrait done. We had to commission an artist from Connecticut to fly out.” Greyson dropped his voice to mimic his dad’s imperious tone.“Make sure you capture the defiance in my eyes. I’m not leaving without a fight.”
Wren chuckled, her fingers scraping deliciously over his scalp as he shut his eyes. The fireplace warmed his feet as his legs stretched across the floor, and he was perfectly comfortable sitting between her thighs as she rubbed the tension from his neck.
“It’s all about control. He wrote his own damn obituary and called it in to the New York Times, demanding they print it above the fold.”
Wren continued to massage his scalp as he vented.
“He’s hitting up the private reserve in the wine cellar, flying out members of his board for meetings, and dictating his memoir to some ghost writer that traveled here from California.”
“Shut your eyes and breathe in the lavender.” She placed a cold, padded mask over his face.
He breathed deep, letting the soothing scent seep into his sinuses. “You know, I’d never let anyone else do this to me.”
“I know.”
She massaged the joints between his knuckles. Rat pounced over his legs, playing with some of the cat toys Wren bought. Greyson leaned back, letting the soothing herbs work their magic.
“What oil are you using?”
“It’s a mixture of bergamot and ylang-ylang.”
“I like it.”
She massaged his back and shoulders for several more minutes, then moved Rat to the sofa and took the kitten’s place on his lap, looping her arms around his shoulders. When she brushed her lips to his, he lifted the mask.
“Feel better?”
