Page 59 of The Activist and Her Billionaire

I tell myself that what she said didn’t bother me, but the prospect of having nothing scares the hell out of me. I could roll the dice once too often and lose everything. I will be wiped out if I’m on the hook for attorney’s fees.

Adrianne pummels and pounds. She’ll never get in, not through the front door. I call the cops. I stand by the entrance sothe dispatch can hear her ranting like a lunatic. I recede into the house and pretend that the outside world doesn’t exist.

Too amped to take a nap now. I get a paper pad and pen and map out an action item to-do list.

I wait until I hear sirens splitting the air. Adrianne stops knocking.

I stand in the doorway, watching to see whether she will escape. She only gets as far as behind the wheel when a cop car blocks her exit.

I wait and speak only when spoken to. Adrianne switches off the crazy and turns on the cool. She tries to bluff the cops to make them think I made the whole thing up. But her face is red and sweaty, her hair disheveled, and her hands are already bruising.

“Got her?” I call out.

“Do you want to press charges?” He approaches the door.

“Dispatch said she was kicking and punching the door to gain entry.

I examine the door. There are pits in the wood where there had not been. I am so over it; I am numb.

“I just want you to take her away,” I say. “I’ll file a restraining order tomorrow.”

Or not, I think. Because I am not so sure I want to stick around Dove Point.

Jack is undoubtedly going to find out about this weird incident here today. But I am not going to tell him.

Chapter 17

Jack

Ican’t imagine how hard it will be for Brynne to pack up this week. She and her two sisters moved to the inn after their parents died, and Uncle John became their legal guardian. The inn is only the second home she has ever known.

She is likely to be an emotional mess, and I want to be supportive – which is both easier said than done and highly ironic since I am the person causing her to upend her life – a life she loves and a life that suits her.

I call around to find a florist open on Sundays – not an easy task, but I finally find someone who answers their phone. I want to send something fun to perk Brynne up – a dozen roses strike me as the wrong thing to send – too stuffy and not very creative, so I ask the lady on the other end of the line if I can pick out the flowers individually.

I want to order a custom arrangement. I envision a couple dozen happy flowers of different varieties in a large glass container wrapped with a big burlap bow. I requested there be lots of baby’s breath worked in. The florist assured me it wouldn’t be aproblem but warned me it would be costly. Shocker, I think to myself. What else would I expect – I’m in LA. Everything costs more.

She must have sensed my inner cynicism – or more likely; I must not have hidden it well because she reminded me, in a politely sarcastic tone, that it was Sunday, and she was doing me a favor because, really, she’s closed on Sundays. I just happened to catch her stopping by to pick up an arrangement for a friend.

“In that case,” I say, “I really feel like an ass and a half. Charge me twice what you normally charge. And then give yourself a big tip. Just get the flowers there ASAP. Please.”

The rest of the day is spent catching up on the work I’ve neglected since this Calypso mess started.

Later in the day, it dawned on me that I hadn’t heard from Brynne all day. It crosses my mind that the flowers could have been a mistake under the circumstances. What if she thought I was being insensitive by sending them? What if she thought I was gloating? Clearly, she doesn’t want to talk, or she would have called.

I decide to give her the space she must want, even though it is all I can do to keep myself from driving to Dove Point to hang out at the inn with her.

My house, as spectacular as it is, is not nearly as comfortable as the inn is. Architecturally beautiful, it lacks warmth. The vibe is cold and sterile – which, in retrospect, could be the reason I don’t like staying here very much. I find it even less welcoming since Brynne has left her mark on the house and my heart.

The weekend passes so slowly that it is torturous. Every time the phone rings, my heart rushes, hoping it is Brynne calling. When I awake Monday morning, my anxiety is off the charts.

I know it’s partially because I miss being with Brynne and her quirky personality, but I’m also growing concerned about not hearing from her for nearly four days. At this point, not callingto acknowledge the flowers is starting to seem borderline rude – and even though I’ve known her for less than a couple of weeks, it seems out of character for her. So, something must be wrong.

I have meetings stacked back-to-back during the day, which makes it fly by, leaving me no time to obsess over Brynne’s lack of communication. It was late afternoon before I had more than five minutes to dwell on my personal life.

Still no Brynne, but wildly, no Adrianne either. I haven’t heard from her since we said goodbye on the yacht. For this tiny miracle, I knocked twice on my wooden desk and hoped our talk had changed Adrianne’s behavior permanently.

I check my calendar to verify that Brynne and Red Hawk have no further pending legal matters. The only business I want to resolve is to arrange to move her out of the inn and find a place for her – preferably near me.

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