Page 70 of One Wild Wedding Weekend

Until Daley.

Now he could think of nothing else but coming home to her or with her at the end of a busy day and screwing their brains out.

He knew that was a fantasy. They both had friends and family and professional commitments. She wasn’t his exclusively. But she was going to be under his roof. That was a start.

Monday, he got to the office early and dove into work. For three hours he plowed through phone messages, dealt with a mountain of emails and finally managed to get his inbox under control.

He and Daley hadn’t spoken since she left Saturday morning. That was okay. She had asked for time and space to think about his offer. He didn’t want to spook her. If he read the situation correctly, she wanted what he wanted.

They had texted back and forth at odd hours. Nothing important. Mostly at night. He had found himself lying in bed with an urgent need to connect with her. Even via something as impersonal and unsatisfying as a text.

At eleven thirty, he started to get hungry. Skipping breakfast hadn’t been a good idea. Maybe Harold would like to grab lunch.

Their offices were only a few yards apart in a wood-paneled, carpeted hallway. Perhaps the decor was something Tristan would change sooner than later. Appearances mattered. If he was going to modernize L&D, he might start with remodeling the two floors they rented. Install light hardwood. Change everything to brighter colors.

He was only steps away from his uncle’s door when he heard Mildred, Harold’s executive assistant, cry out.

Tristan broke into a run, knowing instinctively something was wrong.

When he burst through the door, Mildred was kneeling beside his godfather. She shot him a panicked glance. “He keeled over,” she said. “No warning.”

Tristan dropped to his knees as well. “Call 911.”

He shook Harold, trying to rouse him. The old man’s skin was ashen, his face sweaty. Try as he might, Tristan couldn’t tell if he was breathing. And no detectable pulse. Tristan shoved back the nerves and the fear and began CPR. He’d been recertified only three months ago.

The next minutes passed in an agonizingly slow blur. He did compressions over and over and over until his arms and his back ached. Every few minutes he paused to check for any change. But there was none.

Random fractured prayers bounced inside his head.

At some level, he recognized that people were in the room with him. Their presence didn’t matter until other people with uniforms began to arrive.

As the professionals used oximeters and oxygen masks and injections, Tristan continued his dogged drive to sustain life. He couldn’t stop. Harold couldn’t die. Not like this.

Eventually, a grizzled EMT knelt beside him. The man put a hand on Tristan’s shoulder. “That’s enough, son. He’s gone. I’m sorry. You did everything right.”

Tristan couldn’t stop. If he did, the world would fall apart.

Two men physically restrained him. Lifted him to his feet.

While Tristan watched, woozy from shock and exertion, the team of medics loaded the body onto a gurney.

Time stood still. A medical examiner showed up. Pronounced time of death.

And then the body was taken away.

L&D’s chief operating officer was a woman in her fifties. Her eyes were red-rimmed as she stared at Tristan.

He cleared his throat. “Shut the offices, please. Tell everyone to go home. I’ll communicate via email about arrangements.”

Tristan was Harold’s power of attorney. He knew Harold had a DNR, though it wouldn’t have mattered today. It was over.

Slowly, the room emptied.

The only person left was Daley. When she came to hug him, he eluded her. “I have to deal with things,” he said. “Excuse me.”

He saw the startled surprise on her face. But he couldn’t bear to have her touch him. Not now.

Daley stepped back, giving him physical space. But she didn’t leave. “Let me get you a bottle of water,” she said quietly. “You’re in shock, Tristan.”

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