Chapter Twenty-Eight
Tuesday morning, Micah dragged his sorry ass out of the elevator at the foundation and rushed past Maggie, who stood up from behind the desk.
“Not a word,” he growled before slamming his door hard enough one of his pictures fell off its hook and smashed against the floor. Darcy would have scolded him for destroying the image she’d admired last week.
That cursed name. He’d banned it from his thoughts, not that his mind seemed inclined to listen. That manipulative little minx had slipped in there, and no amount of prying would get her out.
Gaze fixed on the shards of glass, he stood there in extreme discomfort, as if he the air had turned into hot sand. Out of place, out of sorts, out of breath.
Out of Darcy.
Fuck.
It was her birthday. The daisies he’d ordered Sunday night—enough to fill her apartment—would be delivered to her today. He should probably cancel them. There was still time.
Still…endless time without her.
Jesus, what was his problem? None of it had been real. Just as he’d expected. Not a goddamned second.
He’d spent the rest of yesterday drinking himself senseless until the pain had numbed, and his mind had switched off. It would be the only pleasure he’d know from now on. The only one he deserved, and the only one he could afford. He should have known something so perfect wouldn’t waltz into his office out of the blue.
Darcy Delacorte had been a curse all along.
So, why had he heard her sobbing when he’d left her apartment? Why had she recoiled from him in shock when she’d read the paper? Was it just another part of the act?
The sound of the knob turning sent him toward his desk. “Not today, Maggie, I’m not in the mood. You might as well go home, anyway. Answering the phone will only fill your ears with death threats.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Maggie said with her British lilt as she entered. “I tried to reach you all day yesterday, but you didn’t pick up. Tell me you didn’t do something rash because of this tripe.” She brandished a newspaper at him.
“Get that away from me.” Pointing an accusing finger at her, he added, “This is your fault, you know. If you hadn’t forced that woman on me, we would have continued on as usual.”
“And you’d have continued to be a miserable workaholic cuss who wasn’t living. When you called me to arrange the flowers Sunday night, you sounded more alive than I’ve ever known you. Excited, happy, even, and that’s not a word I’d ever use to describe you.”
“Well, it was all a lie. She suckered me, and I fell for it.” That discomfort grew in him, the way Darcy had reacted. Maybe he’d been too harsh, even if she deserved it. Her scar had been real. And the way she looked at him, kissed him…
“She did nothing of the sort.”
He raised a brow, agonizing over the guilt and doubt swelling in his mind. “How do you figure?”
“You said you read through her blog posts, yes?” Her eyes narrowed in challenge. She’d never shown such anger at him over anything.
“Yes. What does that have to do with anything?”
Three quick steps had her at his desk. She spread out that terrible front page to his left, and laid another article beside it. “This is one of the newspaper articles she’s had published.” Maggie pointed at the first paragraph of the story about him and then moved her finger lower down the page. “Take note of this paragraph here, the turns of phrase used, the cadence of the writing, and then look at paragraph four of this other article by Solomon North, Editor-in-Chief of the Toronto Today.”
Micah’s pulse jumped in his neck as his stare narrowed in on the writing. By the time he’d finished his comparison, his hands had cramped under his grip on the paper, and he was grinding his teeth. “She didn’t write this section,” he heard himself saying, his voice distant beyond the chaos in his head.
“You’re damn right, she didn’t. If I had my guess, I’d say this Solomon took her article and added his own sadistic twist. Now, I’ll ask you again. Tell me you didn’t do something rash to ruin this delicate beginning you have with her. Did you talk to Miss Delacorte yesterday?”
Oh, God. “Yes,” he whispered.
“And what did you say to her?”
He came to his feet, panic launching him across the room with his hands shoved into his hair. “What I said…I said…unforgivable things. Jesus. The whole time, she really had no idea what I was talking about. What have I done?”
“Damn you, Micah. Why did you so easily believe she betrayed you?”
“Because it didn’t make sense that she could want someone like me,” he roared. “I thought He was punishing me.”
“Oh, horse shit. You make your own future, the one you fought to have. Darcy is supposed to be part of that future. Now, you get your rear end out of here and find her, and if you still believe, then pray it’s not too late. I will not go back to living with the man you were before last week, and if you think the foundation will fall, or that Miss Delacorte will let that happen without a fight, then you don’t know a damn thing about any of us who are in this with you. If not for yourself or for us, then you owe it to Fernando.”
Hearing Maggie swear halted all thought. Fernando had risked and lost his life to give Micah back his. He was fucking up his second chance. “How could I have said that to her? How do I fix that?”
“On your knees if you have to. You’re a proud man, but for this, spare no pride. She’s worth it. You need to make sure she knows it, and words may not be enough. Go. Put all that stubbornness to work, and don’t take no for an answer.”
He’d thrown her away at the first obstacle.
Maybe fate had once again placed Micah on the edge of a blade to test his mettle. If he and Darcy could overcome this epic and disastrous misunderstanding, then maybe anything was possible.