Page 90 of Remember Me

Shit. I forgot about that contract.

“If you break it, I’m going to sue your ass for all you have.”

“I’ll call you,” I say calmly though my muscles clench at the thought of being stuck with her. Even professionally.

“And you better not screw up the Zander show. There’s too much riding on it. Including your career.”

The door to her condo slams shut with a bang as the elevator glides open with a ding. A harmony of sorts. I step inside it and the doors slide closed. As the elevator descends, I blow out a breath.

Mission accomplished. Sinking a hand into my pocket, I clutch the soft velvet pouch, rubbing the hard contents between my fingers.

A euphoric lightness of being soars inside me. I’m a free man. It’s time to officially reclaim my wife.

CHAPTER 55

Skye

Nine a.m. I trudge to the kitchen to make myself some coffee, discarding the stale coffee pod left in the Keurig. An empty mug sits beside it.The Boss.The words printed on it in red. His mug. Where is he? Why did he leave me?

Last night was one of the most intense and unforgettable nights of my life. One of soul-blazing confessions and passionate lovemaking. Rediscovery and reconnection. Our bodies and hearts reunited after close to five long, painful years apart.

Then, I woke up this morning alone. Finn gone. Nowhere to be found. Bereft, I checked the entire house, my bungalow, and his studio. There wasn’t even a note.

The light of my life—Maddie—is still sleeping. Saturday, Rosita has the day off. Too wound up to heat up some milk, I sip the strong black brew, hoping for some clarity.It’s complicated. It all comes back to that. My stomach twists. Insecurity kicks in. Gloom looms over me. Did he go back toher?

I weigh my options. If Finn marries Kayla, I don’t think I can stay here. After last night, the pain would be too great. Unbearable. But the thought of never seeing him again—and my beloved daughter—is equally unbearable. In fact, unfathomable. I feel like I’m standing on a fault line, the earth about to cave in. My body quakes; my hands shake. As I lift my coffee mug to my lips, I lose my grip and it tumbles to the terracotta floor. Shattering. At least a dozen jagged ceramic pieces swim in the pool of dark liquid surrounding my feet. Grabbing a wad of paper towels from the nearby dispenser, I squat downto clean up the mess. Still shaking, I blot up the coffee and gather the shards. Tears blur my vision. Suddenly, a sharp pain rips through my finger. I yelp. A river of blood starts pouring down my digit, forming crimson tributaries on my palm. Shit. I’ve cut myself badly. I hold the soaked towel to my wound and as a fire engine-red stain permeates the paper, I begin to sob uncontrollably. Fraught with emotion, I stare down at the floor, my hot ugly tears coming down like raindrops. I’m sobbing so loudly I don’t even hear footsteps.

“Skye, what’s the matter? What happened?”

Without brushing away my torrent of tears, I look over my shoulder.

Finn. Worry etched deep on his beautiful face. He jogs over to me and squats down beside me, eyeing the bloodstained paper towel wrapped around my finger.

“I cut myself,” I splutter.

“Let me see.” His voice as tender as his touch, he takes hold of my trembling hand. I watch as he removes the towel. Blood gushes from the deep gash.

“Sheesh. You really did a number.” On my next shaky breath, he slips his T-shirt over his head and presses it against my finger.

“Hold this. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

“But what about the mess?” Doing as he asks, I cast my eyes down at the scattered mug fragments and coffee puddle saturating the floor.

“It can wait.” Leaping up, he hurries to one of the kitchen cabinets. My eyes stay on him as he jogs back with a box of Band-Aids and a tube of ointment in his hands. Squatting back down, he sets the bandages on the floor and then unscrews the cap of the ointment. Neosporin. Holding it in his hand, he removes his shirt from my finger. There’s a huge splotch of blood on the fabric.

“I ruined your T-shirt.” I sniffle, thinking back to our first encounter at Christie’s when I ruined his scarf with my bloody mess of a hand. It was then when I fell in love with him. And knew that this man would take care of me forever.

He laughs lightly. “This is nothing compared to all the paint stains I’ve gotten. It’ll wash out.” He squirts a dollop of the antiseptic ointment on my still bleeding finger. “This cut is nasty, but I don’t think you need stitches.”

Inwardly, I sigh with relief. I’ve had enough stitches to last a lifetime. But what’s one more scar?

He flips open the box of Band-Aids and pulls one out. He peels it open. “Baby, I leave you for a couple of hours and you turn into a hot bloody mess.”

I can’t help but smile through my tears. I am a hot mess. My life feels like an open wound. But as he gently but securely wraps the adhesive strip around my finger, the hole in my heart begins to close.

“How does your finger feel?”

“Better.” I give it a little wiggle. Truthfully, it does.

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